Old Blood
by madgirls-story
Summary: [Junctures'verse] Pregnant women are getting murdered in Ocean City, Maryland, with a weird M.O. that calls Dean and Sam's attention. The clock's ticking till the next murder happens, but old friends and family secrets get in the way. Includes OCs & OFCs.
1. Prologue

**Old Blood**

_By: Mad Girls' Story (Sleepwalking Dreamer and Beautybedamned)_

_A __Supernatural__ AU Fan Fiction Piece_

**CREDITS AND DISCLAIMERS:**

First, _Supernatural_, the characters, the idea and everything else aired by WB belong to Eric Kripke and are being used without permission. This is purely for enjoyment and fandom-sharing-love people, no money made here. Second, all non-canon characters mentioned from hereon belong to the dynamic duo of **Mad Girls' Story Inc.** (**Sleepwalking Dreamer** and **Beautybedamned**). No using without permission. Asking is good, you know.

**WRITERS' NOTES:**

This is the first part in a series of fics that we're working on for the _Junctures_'verse, our little AU for SPN. Why "Junctures"? Because Crossroads sounded cheesy, Junction didn't quite cut it, and we wanted something that meant places of divergence and meetings.

These were mostly inspired by **Sleepwalking Dreamer**'s idea to incorporate creatures not commonly seen in Western folklore; that said, we would like to mention that a great deal of the inspiration is credited to a book by Maximo Ramos which details much of creature myth for Philippine folklore. We also credit the idea proposed by Neil Gaiman in _American Gods_ that old-world monsters/gods may survive as long as people believe in them. Since there is a similar idea proposed in the SPN episode 1.17 "Hell House", we see no reason to use this as a plausible plot-point in future "episodes". For now though, we would just like to make it known that any modifications to the traditional folkloric perceptions of these creatures we debated for long hours, bearing in mind that these creatures, like humans (and the vampires presented in SPN) are capable of adapting to a fast-changing world. It is our hope that purists keep an open mind and do not get on our case for rewriting some things the way we did.

**ESTABLISHING TIMELINE:**

In the continuum gap between episodes 1.05 (_Bloody Mary_, locations: Toledo, Ohio & Fort Wayne, Indiana; about late December) and 1.06 (_Skin_, location: St Louis, Missouri; speculated sometime in March).

**RATING:** T

**CAST OF CHARACTERS**

Dean Winchester (Jensen Ackles) and Sam Winchester (Jared Padalecki); _Guest-Starring:_ Carla Tenorio, Alfonso Tenorio (Benjamin Bratt), and Luke Richardson (Corey Sevier)

**TEASER:**

Strange attacks have been occurring in Ocean City, Maryland, involving the deaths of young, often pregnant women. The small community has gone up in arms over the death, and while no leads have turned up regarding who has done these killings and why, investigations are on-going. When Dean and Sam Winchester got wind of the most recent attack, they decide that it might be worth their while to drop by and find out what's going on – until they find out that someone might just have gotten ahead of them on this one…

* * *

**Prologue**

_Ocean City, Worchester County, Maryland_

"Luke!" Footsteps moved idly down the flight of stairs, each step cushioned by a spread of carpet. "Luke!" called the voice again, louder this time.

Luke Richardson idly picked up the pile of mail that was sitting on the table by the front door, taking his time to sift through them as his feet brought him in the general direction of the kitchen. "Got mail from Mom and Dad. I think it's a card." He glanced up at his older sister, Emily Richardson-Fletcher as she puttered about in her kitchen, putting the final touches to dinner.

"Do you know where the bug spray is?" She looked over to him helplessly, one hand coming up to wipe away the sheen of sweat from her brow. "Ugh, I swear to God, whatever that dog of yours brought in must think I'm a walking buffet…" She bent over briefly, swatting the skin of her bare calves with her palm.

"Aw, c'mon sis," Luke chuckled then, tossing her a look of innocence as he stepped over to her side, neatly lifting the pot on the stove to prevent it from boiling over. "You love that dog too, admit it. Besides, the vet said they'd give her a scrub-down to get rid of the things."

Emily shot him a withering look. "Fleas, Luke. _Fleas_."

"We don't know that." Luke grinned back cheekily, "Besides, you're not going to die from a couple insect-bites."

"What I'm wondering though is that they don't seem to be bothering you. Even Bobby's complained of getting bites." Emily smiled then, watching him take over at the stove. She wrinkled her nose. "Then again, you're probably used to Aslah's fleas since you let her sleep with you a lot."

"As if," came the quick retort, and both siblings burst out laughing.

"God," Emily leaned against the counter, exhaling a long breath.

" 'Sup?" Luke asked, both brows coming up as he plucked a wooden spoon from the rack to stir the stew a bit.

"Nothing, nothing," Em replied and walked over to the windows; pulling up the blinds and pushing them open wider to let in wind. "It's just so damned hot."

"It's not, Em. That's just you." Luke replied, idly stirring in a bit more pepper. "Then again, I'm not the one carrying a beach ball in my stomach so I wouldn't really know, would I?"

At that, Em cried out in protest, striding over to smack him playfully on his arm: "Alright then, wise-guy, make like a slave and move away from the pot. You're on designated fan-Princess-Em-duty from hereon."

"Haha, no way." And although Luke meant what he had said, he knew, if it really came down to that, he would have willingly fanned his sister if only to cool her down. She was three months pregnant and she always seemed to feel hot despite the January chill. He'd already kidded her that it was probably because she was a Maine-kid through and through; and growing up in the chilly north tended to make even this mild Maryland weather warm by their standards.

"Go. Sit down somewhere already. I've got this." He stuck his tongue out at her, one hand nudging her off by the small of her back. He couldn't help but sigh as he watched her go, her figure disappearing just beyond the wall that separated the dining area from the kitchen. It baffled him sometimes, why he had come down all the way from his hometown in Maine where the rest of their family lived, though most of it was that he had missed Emily, because in spite of the fact that they were brother and sister and hence should have proven anathema to each other, the two of them adored each other and took pride in making it known to everyone they knew that they were particularly close.

When Emily had decided that she wanted to study out of state, he hadn't really worried too much. After all, everyone was entitled to spread their wings and head out of the nest. But when she'd broken the news that she was getting married to Bobby Fletcher and moving to Maryland for good, even just the idea of Em finally leaving the homestead made the house seem emptier, quieter.

He supposed it didn't take him very long to make up his mind. He had already been in his senior year and he'd made the decision that as soon as he graduated high school he'd take some time for himself to travel down to Ocean City just to see her and Bobby. There was no pressure on him jumping straight into college anyway, and his mom had even told him that a break from the books was something he deserved.

So he went, and eventually the three-week visit turned into him moving in and arranging an application to the local college. He might not have wanted to jump straight into university, but he didn't want his brain to relax too much.

He hadn't expected it though. He'd always figured his sister and his brother-in-law would want their space all to themselves, newlyweds and all that. But as it turned out, Emily and Bobby wouldn't have it any other way. They'd practically _insisted_ that he move in with them – presumably under the suggestion that they'd put him up until he'd found a place of his own. But he couldn't help but wonder if the reason the day for him to move out didn't materialize was because Bobby knew he'd keep Em from getting homesick, or that they, as in-laws who barely knew each other managed to get along so well. At the end of it though, Luke was never lonely -- there was Emily to nag and Bobby to share 'guy stuff' with, like watching football on TV or going out drinking with several other friends from the neighborhood. Maybe it was also because he'd proven himself helpful in and around the house, even as he took part-time classes.

But it was more than just a decent arrangement. In exchange for taking up the guestroom and turning it into his own, he'd offered to do some of the chores, or to cook dinner for the 'lovebirds' when they got home. Chores were immaterial to being close to family, and, he was proud to say that, at least, unlike some guys his age whose cooking skills were limited to following the instructions on the lid of a microwave dinner or dialing the phone for pizza delivery, he knew his way around the kitchen enough to whip up something more than just okay. He might not have been top chef, but he could make decent food without boiling the bottom out of a pot.

Especially now, Luke thought as he glanced up to her now as he took hold of the potholders, tipping the soup into the new bowl Emily had just pulled out from the cupboard.

In the wake of the news of his sister's pregnancy, he and Bobby had fallen into a mutual agreement that wasn't a good thing to let the lone female in the house to do any heavy housework for the first trimester of her pregnancy. Having never grown up with a brother, Luke enjoyed the twisted kind of 'manly-bonding' that they enjoyed from playfully 'bullying' Em. So, they pulled more weight now, taking on more of the housework so that Emily could relax as soon as she got back from her shift in the hospital, he didn't mind it in the least. And as far as he could tell, neither did Bobby. That guy was too excited to be a dad. As for himself, the prospect of being around when the baby came along tickled him to no end.

He was going to be an uncle. Couldn't _wait_ to be an uncle.

He looked up again from the pot and frowned. Emily had wandered off and with a shrug, he carried the bowl of stew out onto the dinner table, only to catch sight of her stepping out of one of the storage rooms with an, "Aha, there it is!" and a can of bug spray clutched in her hand. "I'll finally be able to get those suckers." She grinned as she shook the can.

"Whoa there!" Luke quickly set the hot bowl down, and stepped over to her, taking the can neatly out of her hand. He put on his best I-know-what's-best-for-you face and spoke the next words with a measure of brotherly authority. "You finish up dinner, let me handle the bugs."

At that, Emily simply raised a brow at him. "This isn't heavy housework, Luke. I have to keep on moving around if I don't want to turn into a fat cow before I even show."

"That's not the point, Em. Just don't want you inhaling any of this stuff." Luke grinned as he waved the can a little. "Can't be any good for the baby."

Emily rolled her eyes. "You and Bobby are _insane_. As I remember it, Mom was walking around and doing much of the housework when I was younger and she was pregnant with you. She even lifted a Christmas ham when she was around five months along, and you turned out just fine."

"Still not the point. Just watch over the stove and I'll get rid of the bugs." With that said, Luke turned, heading for the bedroom that Emily and Bobby shared. After making sure that the windows were shut, he sprayed insecticide on the floor in a wide arc, hoping that it would knock out enough of the bloodthirsty insects from between the cracks of the floorboards to leave the married couple in peace. He made a mental note to do the same in the hallway, and maybe along the stairs. Bug-bombing the place was the best solution, but then they'd have nowhere to bunk for the night, so the spray was the current alternative.

As Luke stepped out of the room, he heard the door open, followed by voices raised in greeting – one of them being Bobby's. It comforted him to know that they would be a happy family tonight, not least of all because of the murders that had been happening around town.

Shutting the bedroom door, he headed back to the kitchen, already hearing his brother-in-law's voice coming from that direction, managing only to catch the tail end of the elder man's sentence: "…great loss."

"What's a great loss?" Luke asked, setting aside the can of bug spray in the little cabinet underneath the display case before he sat himself down at the table.

"Mara Cruz died this morning," Bobby explained softly, his eyes dark and serious. His tie was loose around his neck, the top button undone.

Emily's eyes widened and her hand came up to cover her mouth. "Oh God," she murmured, "How are Paula and Mitch taking it?" she asked, Mara's siblings coming immediately to mind. They all went to the same church as the Cruz family, and Bobby himself had practically grown up next door. When Em had first arrived, it had been both Mitch and Paula who had made her feel right at home in the tight little community.

As if on instinct, Luke noticed how one hand fell over the flat expanse of her stomach while her free hand reached out to her husband, the gold of her ring glinting in the light. He was across from them both, scooping up some stew onto his own plate.

"I just don't understand it, I don't understand why. Why of all people, Mara. She was just a kid." Bobby murmured softly, his fingers curling over Emily's own. "I remember, Mrs. Cruz used to invite me over all the time for Sunday lunch when I came home on the weekends and Mom and Dad were off somewhere," he explained softly, his eyes meeting Luke's over the table. "I never met Mara until much later, when she finally moved here after their maternal grandparents migrated to Canada from the Philippines, but you know... Mrs. Cruz used to talk about her a lot. Always said that Mara would come here to study as soon as she got that scholarship."

Luke felt his stomach drop and he suddenly felt his appetite fading away. The neighborhood hadn't been quite so safe lately. People were dying, here, there; and the idea that someone who lived around three houses down from where they did was now one of those dead just made him feel cold all over. "Did they say when the funeral would be?" He asked suddenly, maybe too suddenly, but he knew they would both understand.

"They said it'd happen as soon as the coroner was finished with figuring out what happened to her." He didn't say anything, but the look on Bobby's face told Luke that he already knew how Mara had died.

Emily shivered. "I know that what happened is really sad and all, but could we not talk about it for a while? Not over dinner, anyway…"

Bobby smiled then, and squeezed Emily's hand gently. "It's okay, honey."

"Hey, easy there," Luke muttered, smirking as he saw Bobby withdraw his hand from Emily's. "No lovey-dovey-happily-married shit at the dinner table."

Bobby laughed while Emily scowled and kicked him under the table. "When you're married, you'll have no right to say that to us," she muttered as she flipped her hair over her shoulder.

"I'm not happily married yet, nor am I in a hurry. So frankly, I'm entitled to poke fun at you guys whenever I want." In spite of that, though, Luke smiled. He was glad that Emily was happy with Bobby. She'd had a rough time with some of her other boyfriends before, for which Luke had been in more than a few scrapes "defending her honor," as he liked to joke – even though several occasions of split lips and one occasion of a mild concussion were not joking matters.

But the mood had lightened for the meantime, and each of them were glad that all thoughts of murder and funerals were banished for the meantime as they slid back in to talk of what they had done throughout the day, what they had planned for the coming weeks, the baby shower, the trip out of town to see Emily and Luke's parents, and other such things. Laughter, smiles, toasts made with water glasses filled with soda.

It was Emily who heard it first, the soft _tik-tik_, _tik-tik_ that clicked in from the open window. When it caught on her ear, she cocked her head slightly to one side, and frowned.

_Tik-tik_. _Tik-tik_.

"You guys hear that?" she asked softly, causing Luke and Bobby, currently debating once again on sports, to look at her.

Bobby frowned. "Hear what, sweetheart?"

_Tik-tik_. _Tik-tik_.

Emily stood, pushing her chair back a little as she walked cautiously to the window. "That."

_Tik-tik_. _Tik-tik_.

Luke frowned as well, trading looks with Bobby as he stood to peer out the window at his sister's side. He had heard it too, unusual a sound as it was. "What the hell is _that_?"

_Tik-tik_. _Tik-tik_.

"Maybe it's some new thing in the Martin's garden. I heard Mindy's been re-landscaping the backyard. Could be one of those Japanese-style fountain things that's gotten her all fascinated lately." Bobby suggested, though there was something in the way that he said it that made the words sound more like a question than a statement.

"Could be a bird." Emily murmured, her fingers falling away from the lace curtain. "Or a squirrel. It _is_ that time of the year, and you know how the animals get." She turned away from the window, from the darkness, and back to her husband and to their dinner. "Luke, come on. Let it go. It seems to have quieted down for now at least."

Luke hesitated for a heartbeat before he finally tore his eyes away. No bird he knew ever sounded like that, no squirrel either, but he didn't argue. Bobby was probably right, and a sound never did anyone harm besides. So he sat back down, and felt Emily's contagious smile creep onto his own. "So, brother mine. How's that girlfriend of yours doing lately?"

**xxx**

There was something of a mini-earthquake going on, but Dean Winchester didn't feel like getting up just yet. It was early – _way_ too early – for anyone of sane and stable mind to be up and about. So instead, he rolled over onto his stomach, and buried his face in his pillow. It didn't feel like all that strong an earthquake anyway, or at least not strong enough to bring the motel down around his ears. He could stay in bed and let it pass.

The shaking, however, got stronger, and this time, was accompanied by an all-too-familiar voice: "-wake up. Dean, get up. It's morning."

Groaning, Dean opened his eyes, blinking them blearily before looking over his shoulder at the person who had shaken him awake. "Get lost, Sam." It wasn't a suggestion.

Sam Winchester gave him a small, crooked smile, as he stood. "I got up as soon as it was light out. Come on, get up. We've got work to do."

The groan that all but crawled out of Dean's mouth was hushed by the yawn that followed. "Don't you ever _not_ want to be a morning person?" He reached for his watch, which was lying on the nightstand to his right, and checked the time. It was seven A.M. – not that bad a time to be up, but much too early when he wanted to sleep in. Sighing, the elder of the two brothers shifted himself upright so that he was sitting on the edge of the bed, and facing the one who was currently sitting at the tiny table underneath the window, sipping coffee from a large paper cup.

Dean frowned. "Did you even get any sleep?" His mouth felt like something had died in it. Bathroom. Toothbrush. Toothpaste. He paused. Maybe after breakfast. He stood and stretched, feeling his muscles groaning underneath his skin. When he looked back down at Sam, he reached for the cup of coffee and all but grunted when the latter held it away.

"Couldn't sleep." Sam leaned back against the rest of the seat, his eyes turning outside to where people were walking on the sidewalk. His expression looked slightly rueful.

"Okay." Dean felt that he ought to ask why, but judging from the expression on his brother's face, it wasn't something that he wanted to talk about at that moment. So instead, he smiled, and nodded to the cup in his brother's hand. "Any more where that came from?"

Sam simply nodded to a cup that was standing across from him on the table. "All yours."

"Thanks." Dean slid into the chair opposite his brother, and sipped his coffee while he looked through the local papers. They were in Ocean City, hot on the trail of a case that Dean had managed to sniff out over the Internet. A hash of murders had been occurring in this particular side of the East Coast for the past three months; the victims were all women, with a handful of them in the early stages of pregnancy. The modus operandi was the same: each had hemorrhaged to death after someone – or something, as Dean preferred to think now – had sucked out their innards and, in the case of the pregnant women, their fetuses, through their vaginas.

What was more troubling about this whole affair though, was that such things occurred not only to women who slept alone in their rooms, but even to some who had their husbands right next to them – and the husbands were never the wiser about what had happened. One would think that, given the nature of the killing, the women would at least scream, but they never made so much of a peep even when they were being killed.

It was that fact that made up Dean's mind about driving out to the resort town to find out what was really going on.

The elder Winchester unfolded a copy of one of the local dailies, and frowned at what was on the front page. After scanning it momentarily, he turned the paper around and handed it over to Sam. "Check it out."

As Sam took the paper, Dean watched his brows knit together as he read the headline: "Another Victim Claimed by Serial Killer." Sam glanced up at Dean momentarily, and when Dean nodded for him to continue, he read the first part of the article: "Early yesterday morning another woman became the victim of the unknown serial killer who has been prowling the city for the last three months. Emily Richardson-Fletcher, wife of accountant Bobby Fletcher, was found dead in the bed she shared with her husband when he woke up at six A.M. This latest murder, which follows in the wake of the death of Mara Cruz, daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Santiago Cruz, has plunged the entire community into fear and despair. Police have been trying hard to find the killer, but as yet they have turned up no evidence that could possibly lead to the one who could have committed the killings."

"Sounds suspicious, doesn't it?" Dean remarked as he sipped his coffee, watching his brother read the rest of the article in silence. "I mean, the woman could have at least made some noise while she was being killed, right?"

"So what do you think it is?" Sam asked as he put the newspaper aside. "I've checked Dad's journal, and there's nothing like this in there."

Dean shrugged. "Might be a local legend, something that's exclusive to the area, or it could be something really recent."

"Three months is too short a span of time for something like this to become a legend, even a local one." Sam sighed. "It might just be a really good serial killer, you know."

"Someone who can break into houses and kill people without making a sound at all?" Dean raised an eyebrow. "Doesn't sound like serial killer material to me." He downed his coffee, and stood up. "Grab anything else you think you might need; I'm just going to put on some clothes and then we'll get moving again."

Sam gave him a look. "Where are we going this time?"

Dean shrugged. "Nowhere much – just going off to pay our respects to the dearly departed, provide emotional support – you know, the usual." He turned away from his brother then, knowing that he would only see Sam roll his eyes in disapproval, but he knew that there was no other choice. If they wanted to know what the hell had happened, they would have to go straight to the source of information.

Now, all he had to do was think up a good cover story for them, and they'd be good to go.


	2. One

**One**

The sound of many people conversing in soft, hushed tones was a drone to his ears. The words blurred together and became too indistinct to make out clearly unless he stood near enough to a small cluster of people to find out what they were talking about. It was a sound that Sam Winchester was more than familiar with, and it was one that he wished he could forget.

The soft murmur was an integral part of his childhood memories, especially since John Winchester liked to take his sons with him whenever he went to investigate something. Not only did they make excellent "props" for whatever story John had managed to concoct, but it was apt training ground for them to learn what to do in order to get the information that they needed for the hunt that was to come.

It wasn't exactly Sam's choice of an education, but it had taught him how to survive, and for that much, at least, he felt grateful to his father; even if John hadn't provided him with the "normal" life that he so craved.

That was the whole point to running away to begin with: to carve out for himself a normal (enough) life.

At least, until a few months ago.

As of now though, he and his brother had dropped by at the house right next door to the Fletchers', which had apparently been offered up by the kindly neighbors as a place where people could gather in the meantime. Meantime being, until the police had finished collecting all the evidence they could.

Any memorabilia that could be taken from the house had been brought out, and set up on every available space that the Rodriguez family (for they were the residents of the house) had managed to make by clearing out some of their own knick-knacks and photographs.

Sam was currently looking at a picture of Emily and a man whom he assumed was her husband. From the looks of things, it had been taken at some beach or other during the summer, with the sun shining bright and the wind blowing from the ocean – sunshine days and happy times, all peaceful and normal. Normal…what was it like to be normal? To get married and have children? Those were only some of the questions that Sam knew he wouldn't be able to answer – and maybe, he would never be able to answer given the life that seemed to be laid out for him and his.

"Are you a friend of Em's?"

Sam turned at the voice, finally realizing that there was someone standing just behind him. The guy looked to be around his age -- maybe, with dark brown hair and dark brown eyes. Eyes that looked like they hadn't seen much sleep in the past few hours or so. "Um, yeah, I am. I'm one of her friends from college." He smiled weakly, awkwardly falling into his "role".

The guy chuckled, the sound almost sad, and nodded. "So many of you guys have been turning up lately…" He held his hand out. "I'm Luke, Em's brother."

Younger brother? He couldn't be sure, but Sam decided to play along, shaking the other man's hand firmly in his own. "Oh, yeah, she used to talk about you a lot… I'm Sam, by the way." It was a long-shot, but he gambled a little, given the amount of other pictures with Luke seemingly an integral subject along with Emily. He nodded over to the pictures, making an effort to appear casual but genuine. "It's really awful, what happened to her."

Luke inhaled, seemed to swallow. Sam couldn't help but feel as though he looked as though the world had all but fallen apart. "Yeah, it is…" For a moment, the younger Winchester brother noted how Luke clenched his jaw, falling to silence as if contemplating on something or another. "You know what's worse, though? Neither I nor Bobby was there to protect her."

Sam frowned, the picture of all concern, though no one was the wiser that in truth, his mind was working at top speed at that moment, making things up as he went. "What do you mean?"

"It happened in the night, but…neither of us heard her making a sound. She should have, you know? I mean, no one gets killed like that without making a single sound. But not even Bobby heard her, and he was sleeping right next to her on the bed. I know that Bobby isn't at fault, but I'm a light sleeper. I should have heard something…"

"Hey, it's okay," Sam said with a sympathetic smile that he hoped appeared genuine. "None of this is your fault." It was the truth, but a part of him wondered if he had any right to talk the way he did when he was convinced that it was his fault that Jessica died. He could almost even heard Dean talking about how it was stupid to blame himself when there was the demon that took away their mom. Still, Sam felt, deep down that if he hadn't kept his past hidden from her, she might probably still be alive right now.

Luke shook his head, and shrugged wearily. "I try to tell myself that, but somehow, I can't shake the feeling that I should have known something bad was going to happen."

There was a pause, just a small one, before he spoke again: "We all feel that way when we lose people we love." This time, Sam knew he meant the words.

"Luke?"

Sam turned upon hearing the voice, and felt all the blood drain away from his face just as his stomach took a swan-dive to his toes.

No way, there was just no way…

Luke smiled wearily at the newcomer. "Hey Carla." He hugged her, and then nodded to Sam. "This is Sam, one of Em's friends from college. Sam, this is Carla Tenorio, one of Em's friends from around the neighborhood."

Sam looked at the newly introduced Carla, and smiled warily when he saw the carefully neutral expression that her face had taken on. He was in big trouble; or deep shit, whichever came first, and all he had to defend himself was acting skills honed enough to keep up the façade and a quiet prayer that she might just play along. "Hi." He held his hand out for her to shake, and he couldn't help but pray harder just as the smile faltered on his lips. "Nice to meet you."

Carla looked at his hand, then up at his face, before smiling a little and reaching out to take it. "A college friend of Emily's, huh? Glad you could come." She paused a bit and looped her arm through Luke's, "Nothing like friends and family coming to help hold the fort." Her eyes turned to Luke then and her expression softened just as quickly as it had frosted over when she'd seen who it was Luke had been talking to. "Luke, my brother wants to see you for a moment. He's worried about how you and Bobby are taking this, and the only time he'll stop fretting is if you show that you're relatively okay."

"Oh for… tell Al to get married already. He needs a wife and kids he can baby get all paranoid over."

She chuckled softly, the sound almost misplaced in all the grief. "Heaven knows I've tried to tell him that." She murmured and nudged him just a little, nodding towards another part of the house. "Go. Let him play his part. I'll be okay here."

Luke sighed and nodded, turning one last time to Sam, his hand held out for one more shake that the latter accepted. "Thanks again for coming." He said, his grip firm despite all else. "There's food in the house. Carla will show you around." As soon as he left, however, whatever relief Sam had felt seeped away.

Carla turned to Sam, her gaze pointed, her voice low and accusing. "College friend?" She crossed her arms, her chin coming up just a bit as something sharp glinted in her eyes. "You know, that's _really interesting_," she spoke the last two words slowly, as if each syllable deserved consideration. "Especially considering that Em went to SFSU when you went to Stanford, like _I_ did, Sam Winchester."

He winced, guilt steeping in his stomach and curling up in his chest. "Carla... hi," He smiled somewhere between a wince and a grimace, his brain going on overdrive with excuses and little while lies. "Imagine seeing you here."

Chasing demons, he didn't mind. Getting injured because of chasing demons, he didn't mind; it was standard procedure. It was the lying that got to him the most. He hated it; despite it being a necessary part of the job, and wished things could be otherwise, especially since Carla Tenorio was more than just an old acquaintance of his from Stanford.

Carla had been one of the first people he made friends with as a freshman, and the way things went, the two of them used to hang out together all the time during those first few months at university. Though they eventually gravitated away from each other as they each found their own niche, spending less and less time together until their contact was limited to bumping into each other in the library during Dead Week, he still considered her one of those good friends that no matter how much time had passed, there was always a sense of comfort in knowing that they could talk, the months spent apart falling away as if they were nothing.

"Uh-huh." She raised one brow, and he knew deep down that he was going to be in for it this time. He swallowed as her voice dropped a pitch lower, making it so only the two of them could hear. "You know, of all the things I pegged you for, Sam, it was never a liar." She stepped closer to him, one finger coming up to press firmly against his chest. Her voice was only slightly above a whisper when she spoke again:

"You disappear days after Jess dies; no goodbyes, no by-your-leaves. I know she and I were never close, and that we drifted apart because you majored in one thing and I did in another." She breathed, poking the finger against his chest as she continued, "But you don't reply to text messages. You don't pick up. Hell, even when those of us who remember you from way back in school manage to get a ring from your phone, you don't answer." She paused, seeming to swallow as she took that step back. "And then you show up here, _months_ after anyone from school hears from you, and you pretend to be an old college friend of Em's – who I am absolutely _sure_, you never even met. Ever."

He winced inwardly. "Look, Carla, I know that you're upset," This was going to be messy. "But could we please talk about this outside?" When she shot him a look he swallowed again. This was going to be _very_ messy.

He put on the most pleading look he could muster, and then hastily threw in another promise: "I'll explain everything, I swear." Anything to buy him time to think up _something_.

A pause sat between them, allowing the sounds of their surroundings to fill in the space where silence might have been. Finally, Carla sighed, the sound heavy despite its softness, and nodded. Suddenly, Sam noticed just how tired she looked, and it dawned upon him that perhaps he was intruding on something more than just a death of a neighbor. "Okay," Carla breathed, the breath heavy as she briefly looked behind her, as if trying to situate who was where. When she turned back to Sam, her voice was firm again. "_Everything_. Okay, Sam?"

What else was there for him to do? He nodded.

She moved ahead of him, weaving her way through the crowd of people as he followed suit, his mind falling back on fabricating the excuses that he could tell her, lies that weren't so much as lies as omissions, and maybe a falsehood or two. Once, the idea of going for broke and just telling her the truth, at the risk of sounding crazy, crossed his mind. The truth was that it would actually make him feel better all around. Spinning another tale didn't feel right. Hoping that whatever he could pull out of thin air had also no guarantee that she'd be convinced.

She wove her way through the crowd of people, and Sam followed suit, already thinking about what he ought to tell her. The idea of going for broke and just telling her the truth, at the risk of sounding crazy would make him feel better all around. Spinning another tale didn't feel right; hoping that whatever he could pull out of thin air was no guarantee that she'd be convinced.

He groaned mentally. But who was he kidding? Even if Carla Tenorio could smell a lie from a mile away – at least, when he was the one telling the lie, she was a smart girl, logical and as far-removed from the lifestyle he and Dean led as anyone could get.

Speaking of Dean, he was beginning to wish that his brother had been close by. That guy might have a little more success with her, but as usual, his brother was nowhere to be found, and Sam wasn't really up to antagonizing Carla right now. Not when she could blow the whistle on his little farce.

When they finally emerged onto the sidewalk, Carla walked a little ways to the side before turning to him. "Talk. And no lies. You've got that look."

"What look?"

She lifted that brow again and he felt himself shrink to a mere three inches in height.

Sam inhaled, letting breath out as slowly as he let out his words. "Okay, um… You remember how fucked-up everything was after Jess died?" He waited for Carla to nod that slow, yes-I-remember nod.

Her arms were still crossed.

Think fast Sam, he thought. "Well, uh… It got even more complicated when my dad disappeared. My brother, Dean, he's a cop, so he yanked me out of Stanford for a while so we could stick together."

On any other day, he might have found the way Carla's lips turned downwards at the corners when she was frowning rather cute, but today, it was only another sign of impending disaster. He was walking a fine, fine line, and he knew it. "What'd your brother need you for? And what's that got to do with you being here, pretending to be Em's friend?"

"Dean thought we ought to stick together, now that both our parents are gone. One of his leads on another case brought us here." Sam figured he was doing a pretty good job, since Carla's mouth was starting to relax a little bit.

Her eyes still had that sharp, raptor-like look to them, though. "So what's he making you do: scope out the area, interview people, being discreet and all that?"

"Well…yeah."

Carla stared at him for just a moment longer, until finally, she sighed, her entire body relaxing with the gesture. She sighed, and shook her head. "Well… I guess I can forgive you for that. For running off the way you did, _not_ for showing up here and pretending to be someone else." Her lips twisted into a wry smile. "You ought to have called me or something. I would have gladly put you up."

Sam laughed, and shook his head. "I couldn't do that to you. Don't want to you get involved in this whole mess." And _that_, Sam thought, was very, _very_ true.

Just then, there was a commotion from inside the house, and when Sam turned to look, he frowned as he watched Luke pulling a young woman along with him down the stairs and out onto the curb. The woman was much, much shorter than Luke and perhaps even far shorter than Carla as far as Sam was concerned. She seemed to struggle against Luke's grip, eventually whirling around with wide eyes and a stream of words that were too garbled to hear from this distance. But as he continued to watch, Sam couldn't shake the feeling that there was something about her, something he couldn't place, that told him in a real contest between her and Luke, height wasn't going to be an issue.

"What's going on here?" Carla demanded as she approached Luke and the woman. Sam hadn't realized that he'd followed right along. "Luke, what the hell are you doing?"

Luke ignored her, all his attention focused on the woman. "You stay away from me," he muttered, pointing a finger at the woman's face. "You stay far away from here and leave me and Bobby the fuck alone. You hear me? I expected so much more from you. We are _done_. I _mean_ that."

"But Luke—"

"_Off_ of the lawn. _Out_ of this house!"

Carla interposed herself between Luke and the girl, though as far as Sam was concerned she didn't have to, because the latter had already turned on her heel and was walking away.

"What the hell were you thinking?!" Carla demanded as she faced Luke one-on-one. "Ami was just here to pay her respects. Considering how close you and she have been lately, I'm surprised at you. Why the hell did you chase her away? She was Em's friend too!"

"You don't understand, Carla. The things she was saying…" Luke shook his head, harder this time, and when he looked at Carla Sam could see the despair and anger in his eyes. "She's been talking crap, okay? She's was saying something about knowing who killed Em. That she tried to stop it. She's been feeding me and Bobby this story about—"

"What's going on out here?"

Sam turned upon hearing another voice – masculine this time, and stronger – and watched as a man in his early forties or so came towards Luke and Carla. He looked at Luke, his eyes the same color as Carla's, though they carried a different kind of authority. "Was that Ami?"

Carla nodded. "Yeah." She glared venomously at Luke. "He just kicked her out."

The frown on the man's face deepened. "Kicked her out? Luke…"

"Family drama, I see." Sam glanced to his side, and watched as Dean walked up to stand next to him. His brother nodded at Carla, Luke and the third person who'd joined in. "You know her?"

"Yeah," Sam replied, slipping both hands into his pockets. "Carla Tenorio." He paused, considering his words just as he weighed Dean's expression. "She was one of the first people I made friends with when I was a freshman at Stanford."

"Uh-huh." Dean nodded, sizing up the three who had toned their argument down and were now huddled close together. "She live here?"

Sam sighed, "Yeah."

"Get any info?"

"Dean," Sam shifted and looked him squarely in the eye. In response, Dean simply lifted a brow. "Look," Sam started, "I told her you were a cop and that we're following up on dad being missing. Stick to the story and let me lead. I want to make the information as close to the truth as we can get."

"Okay. One word: Why?"

He sighed in exasperation. "Because she's a _friend_."

"That kind of thinking is gonna get you thrown in the loony-bin Sammy." Dean shrugged, adjusting the collar of his jacket as though to look presentable. Under his breath, he added: "But fine, we follow your lead. Now look sharp, and I'll play policeman."

"Sorry about that," Carla said softly as she stepped back towards Sam. "Al's handling it." She gestured lamely over her shoulder to where the two were walking back to the house. When she turned back, she tilted her head a little, her eyes focused on Dean, "Hi, and… you are…?"

"Dean Winchester, Sam's brother," His smile was quick, his handshake firm. "You have got to be the prettiest lady I've ever seen." Sam resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

"Can it, Johnny Bravo. That isn't going to get you anywhere with me." All the same, Carla seemed far more relaxed than she had been earlier, and that had to count for something. "But it's nice to meet you, Dean. I'm Carla." She glanced briefly at Sam. "Sam tells me you're looking for your dad."

"Yeah. Just checking up on some leads that we picked up. But never mind that," he pulled himself up to his full height and projected his most concerned expression. "What was the ruckus all about? The fella handled your friend pretty roughly over there."

Carla sighed and shook her head. "Just some of the regular neighborhood drama. Luke's been high-strung since Emily died, and I'm beginning to think that he's just raring to take it out on anyone unlucky enough to say something wrong." She looked like she was about to end her spiel there, but there must have been something on their faces, because her voice dropped a pitch and she continued on. "Luke and Em were close. _Incredibly_. You wouldn't understand that unless you knew that kind of sibling closeness. But more than that, I'm sure you've heard of the killings, and how the killer seems to have zoomed in on pregnant women all around the area."

Sam managed a wan smile. "You got a theory on it?"

"Not really," Carla glanced to the side, her gaze scanning the area in a way that almost made both brothers twitchy. When she turned back to them, she leaned in closer, her voice pitching low and secretive. "But I have my opinions on the matter. Look, this isn't exactly the best place to talk about it. How about you guys come over to my place? We can talk there without being overheard." She paused again, smiling meekly to an elderly couple who closed in to exchange a few hushed words with her. The boys smiled as well, awkwardly, when the elderly couple nodded to acknowledge their presence, assuming them as another pair who had come to say their respects to the dead.

"Besides," Carla said softly. "There's someone else who'd be able to tell you more than I can. About the murders, that is."

"Sure," Sam said, nodding sagely at Carla in response. "Where do we go?"

"I gave you my address a long time ago. Do you still have it on your cell?"

Sam thought for a moment, his hand drifting back into his pocket and over the solid texture of his mobile phone. "Yeah I do." When she nodded approvingly, she continued: "Great. Come by for dinner, okay? Sometime around five-thirty. Just walk right up to the door and ring the bell."

"Carla!" All three looked over to where the tall man from awhile ago waved her over and Carla winced visibly. "That'd be Al calling… and… I have to go."

"Go on ahead. Don't let us keep you," Sam murmured, allowing her a quick exit from their presence. Both boys watched her go, and as soon as she was out of earshot, Sam exhaled, and looked at Dean as they started walking back to the car. Every so often, it seemed that Dean turned around, walking backwards, checking someone or another out. With an exasperated sound, Sam grabbed the collar of his brother's jacket and straightened him around. "Will you quit acting like an idiot scoping out babes on a beach?"

"What?" The latter replied incredulously. "This is hotel-land, Sammy. Babes galore, besides, no harm in it."

"You can be a real jerk you know."

"Never said I wasn't."

They walked up to the Impala and Sam set his hand on the roof, looking over to Dean with an expression that befitted him giving up on the argument. "You know, I hate the fact that you're so damn hard to antagonize."

Dean simply grinned cheekily back, "That's how you get through life, baby brother: make it hard for them to insult you, and they'll eventually leave you well alone."

"Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"Get in the damn car. We've got a lot of time to kill before we head to Carla's house, and I want to get a decent meal in my stomach before that happens."


	3. Two

**Two**

The Tenorio house looked pretty much the same way the others around it did: a comfortable two-storey affair that seemed well-kept and maintained by its residents. There was an SUV parked in the garage, painted black from a distance, a deep blue when they looked closer. There was nothing different or abnormal about it at all – it even had charming curtains over the windows to keep out the sun and the prying eyes of strangers. All in all, it was the perfect picture of normalcy.

The boys parked across the street, jogging over and up the path to the front door. The white plastic button for the doorbell was snug right beneath the antique-looking lamp fixture that had been mounted into the wall. When the door opened, Carla's smile was warm and welcoming, "You two are just in time."

She held the door open for them both, stepping aside to give them room. The paneling in the house was unlike the exterior, colors leaning heavily to shades of brown; all wood, all varnished and shined. Pictures were framed and displayed on a table in the mini foyer, a rather large and old-looking mirror hung above it on the wall.

But it was another antique decor that caught the boys' full attention – a crucifix: a really big one made of aged, polished hardwood, complete with a figure of Jesus that looked as if it had been carved out of real ivory. The last time either of them had seen anything like that, it had been inside a church.

"Wow," Sam murmured, walking over to where it had been hung on the wall. "Where did you get that? Looks antique." Dean simply blinked as he fell into step beside his brother, crossing his arms over his chest as he did so.

"My grandmother brought it here with her from the Philippines. She said that it used to hang on the wall of the prayer room in the old house in Capiz, her province." Carla's voice seemed to get further away, and the brothers looked over their shoulders to see her moving from the foyer and into the living room. Turning away from the crucifix, they followed.

"What are you trying to keep out?" Dean asked as he and Sam settled on the couch, really more out of sheer curiosity than anything else. No one, as far as he knew, kept any big-ass relics like that in their homes unless they were trying to make sure that nothing unnatural made its way in.

"Or maybe: what are we trying to keep in?"

Dean could have jumped. He really could have. But he kept his reflexes under control, and instead turned to the source of the voice that had found its way into their little conversation. "Christ…" He muttered and inhaled to slow his heart rate down.

A young woman – the very same one whom they had seen get kicked out of the wake earlier that day – stepped out from the shadows of the staircase that led to the second floor, her hand light on the wooden banister. She wore a loose long-sleeved sweater; its deep green faded from many a wash, and a pair of woolen trousers that seemed too big for her. Her long hair was pulled back from her face, the ponytail loose at the back of her head. When she stepped into their little circle of three, she turned her attention to Carla, "Bathroom's free."

Carla nodded, grinning widely like a little girl and prompting a smile from the other girl. "Sam, Dean," She turned to the boys, pulling the girl over to her side. "This is Ami Toledo. 'Mi, these are Sam and Dean Winchester. Sam's a friend of mine from Stanford."

Ami nodded her head, perching on the arm of the small sofa just as Carla sat down in it. Her attention turned to Sam. "I think I saw you in one of Carla's boxes."

Dean raised an eyebrow, even as Sam blinked, while Carla laughed at the statement. "I've got pictures of us from freshman year in a box in my room," she explained as she poured water from a pitcher nearby into glasses that she passed to them. "Ami here makes them into scrapbooks. Keeps all my clutter in place."

It was then that Dean grinned at Ami, turning on the charm as to keep things light. "So you an arts n' crafts kind of person?" The girl had an almost owlish watchfulness around her, which made her doll-like features – almond eyes thick with lashes and a nicely shaped mouth – just a little unsettling.

She shrugged and smiled briefly in response, her tone almost bland in her reply: "I like working with my hands."

When Sam raised an eyebrow at _that_ reply, Dean decided that it was now a good time to change the subject. "You and Carla over here related?"

"In a way," Ami replied. "My dad's grandmother was the godparent of one of Carla's grandaunts."

For a moment the boys seemed confused by the statement, and Dean resisted the urge to draw out the connection so that he could process it more accurately. When Carla laughed again, Ami joining her with a smile that put a little more life to her face, Sam shook his head, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. "You really weren't kidding then." He smiled, the flow conversation easier now. "About what you said back in school. About you keeping track of family like that."

"Of _course_," Carla answered him, her expression one of mock offense, as if it was the most natural thing in the world and anyone who couldn't name all their third or fourth-degree relations was either maladjusted or lived a horribly sad life. When she sobered up, her laughter replaced by a quiet calm, she spoke again: "It's not totally common – just so that you boys don't get the impression that ever Filipino family does what we do. But it's common enough in some areas, like where we hail from. You can blame our grandparents, really. And small towns." She paused, and then added: "But yes. Family's important," and the brief look she gave Ami was not lost on the boys. "Always has, always will be."

"Hey you four."

All heads turned looked to the source of the voice, and saw the older man they'd seen at the wake step through the doorway of what apparently led to the dining room. He looked thoroughly domesticated – and perfectly at home in it. Despite that, Dean could tell from the corded muscles in his forearms, and the stance in which he stood, that this was a guy you did not want squaring off against you in a bar fight.

Carla grinned, suddenly on her feet. "Introductions first: Sam, Dean, that's my older brother, Alfonso. Al, these are Dean and Sam Winchester. You remember Sam, right? I've told you about him before."

"Yeah, I remember," Alfonso replied, an easy smile spreading on his face as he wiped his hands on the small towel that he'd brought along. Odd orange stains were spots on the white fabric and the smell of something really good drifted in towards them all. "You're one of Lala's friends from Stanford, right? I've seen you in pictures." He straightened slightly, and made a gesture to the dining room. "Anyway, dinner's ready. Ami, hon, could you go outside and help me bring in the _inasal_?"

She didn't respond vocally, and instead fell into step beside him, her small figure a contrast to his larger one. They headed towards what seemed to be the back, leaving only the three behind. Carla sighed and shook her head as she looked back at the boys with a small, wry smile. "I hope you guys are hungry. Al cooks enough to feed his entire squad."

Dean grinned cheekily. "No problems here."

"Good."

"Um… squad?" Sam queried as they got up and headed towards the kitchen.

Carla nodded. "Uh-huh. Al's part of the city's SWAT team."

Dean froze at that, and turned to Sam just as Carla disappeared into the dining room area. _SWAT team?_ he mouthed and all but got in Sam's face as he hissed: "Sammy, what excuse did you give again?"

Sam opened his mouth to respond or to protest the childhood nickname, but Carla poked her head around the corner, interrupting him. "Come on, it's this way."

Identical grins, both meant to cover up the sudden panic at the prospect of getting their cover blown were suddenly plastered on their face. "Right behind you," Dean replied with nearly forced cheer, and his smile of acquiescence faded the minute Carla ducked back into the room.

No one needed to tell them: they were in deep shit.

**xxx**

"So, I hear you're in law enforcement."

Dean Winchester looked up at Al from his chicken-on-a-barbeque-stick. "Uh, yeah, I am." He replied, almost absently, half of his mind still on his food. He was on his second helping of what Carla explained was chicken _inasal_, a Filipino dish that Carla explained hailed from the province that Ami's family came from. In a nutshell, it was basically just barbequed chicken, but the marinade was a specific kind that looked something close to a radioactive orange – Sam's words, not his.

Across the table, Alfonso Tenorio nodded and held back a smile as he passed the bowl of rice to his sister, who sat at his right. Most of the people in the neighborhood had already been introduced to this particular style of cooking chicken, and his colleagues from work often looked forward to their yearly potluck because of it. It was a novelty to see Dean and Sam's fascination. "So, where do you work?" His voice was light as he broached the subject. "Don't think my buddies here in Ocean City or in Baltimore mentioned you before."

There was an audible pause, and Sam glanced at his brother sideways as he chewed slowly on a piece of chicken.

"I work in Kansas." Dean said simply, confidently as if he meant the words. He leaned back, his hands on his lap as he looked to the man seated across from him.

"Ocean City's a pretty long ways from Kansas." Al replied, the words coming out slowly, softly, the syllables almost measured. He wasn't looking at Dean, but when he did there was a slight a frown on his lips. "Lala said you're looking for your dad."

"Yeah, well," Dean sighed, shifting slightly in his seat. "Been following a lead. Led me here." Dean nodded to Sam with a smile. "Even yanked Sammy out of Stanford so he could help me. Family helps family, after all."

The tension that had snaked its way into their conversation seemed to dissipate in the aftermath of Dean's last words, Alfonso's stern expression softened as he smiled, nodding quietly in agreement. A similar saying had been ingrained into him and Carla from birth, which is why he empathized in a way, with the two younger men who Carla had explained to him earlier, were looking for their father. "Very true." He glanced at Ami, who was seated on his left, and gestured that she pass the mashed potatoes that had been a last minute addition to the meal. It was more common for rice to be served in their house, but when guests were over, they made it a point to mix in other dishes to anticipate. It was a good thing too, because while Sam seemed inclined to sampling the garlic rice, Dean had steered clear of it, opting for more familiar-looking food.

When Sam had inquired earlier if the three of them were the only ones who lived in the house, Carla had explained that their parents had moved back to the Philippines with their grandparents right before she'd entered college and Al had shipped out with the US Navy.

Maria Soledad Capistrano had decided for both her husband and herself that it was a better option for them to take their retirement back home to Capiz, where familiar faces and the ancestral home were waiting for them. Carla also explained that while there was no real need for their parents to move back as well, Aileen and Ray Tenorio had apparently decided that both their children were old enough to lead their own lives. Moving back across the sea wasn't too bad an idea, especially when the house would be empty either way, given that their youngest was college-bound and their eldest going off with the marines.

Al had then explained that both Ray and Aileen had been born stateside – Aileen in Ocean City and Ray in Washington D.C., so whatever eventual experience the married couple had of their homeland were attributed to memories of summers spent flying over the ocean to a country that sadly, some people found too obscure to note. But obviously, both had loved those summers and occasional warm Christmases, and that love had grown in their children as well. But while Al and Carla had the option to still choose where to settle down, their parents had come to the conclusion that instead of their children leaving the nest, as most families went – it would possibly be better that they vacate the house to both siblings until one or the other married first.

As for Ami, the siblings explained that they had met her two months shy of their parents and grandparents moving out. She had been going through the process of migrating to the states, and the timing of her flying over had been opportunity enough for her to attend a family gathering of sorts. She moved in with them shortly after – mostly at the urging of Lola Soledad who had known her father as a boy and who harbored an immovable belief that family was responsible for family.

"I hope though, that your lead doesn't have anything to do with the killings that you might have heard about." Al said, leaning back against his chair with the ease attributed to being the man of the house.

Carla stopped mid-bite and lowered her fork, her eyes slightly downcast, the mood shifting dramatically again, as the subject of the murders was brought up. "Al, not at the dinner table…" she murmured softly, the tone in her words causing the two boys to trade wary glances.

"We heard about the deaths," Sam spoke up then, putting aside his food for the moment, his fork and spoon on either side of his plate. "They're not directly related to the lead Dean picked up, but any information that we could get might shed light on the issue." It wasn't the truth, but the opportunity to slide into the topic of the murders was there and Sam saw no reason why they couldn't segue into it, though he felt a stab of guilt in the pit of his stomach as Carla pushed her plate away, her head turned slightly to the side as if to block out the topic was coming.

Al leaned back against his seat, one hand reaching over to give his sister's wrist a squeeze. His fingers barely brushed her skin though when Carla rose, picking up the emptied wooden bowl they used for rice in both hands, her face closed off, her eyes guarded. She walked to the rice cooker that sat on the nearby shelf; its cord unplugged from the socket, and scooped out three large spoonfuls. She took her time, her back turned to them.

"What do you boys know so far?" Al asked softly, his palm now flat on the table.

"We'd like to know what you think first." Dean said, leaning forward, his forearms braced on either side of his dinner plate.

A wry smile twisted Alfonso's mouth. "Officially or unofficially?"

"Both, if you don't mind," Dean answered, his eyes serious.

Alfonso paused a moment, and then shrugged. "Officially, I'd say that it's a serial killer, someone with some very serious issues. There's a pattern, after all: all the victims are women, and all were in the first stages of pregnancy. Then there's the fact that the M.O.'s the same each and every time. There are a lot of other questions that we can't answer just yet, like how the hell the killer gets into the houses and kills these women while they sleep without even waking up anybody else." He snorted. "The Feds say that they'll have the answers – criminal profilers and whatnot – but no one wants to have them poking their noses where they don't belong."

Dean grinned, and nodded. "I agree totally. About the Feds, I mean."

"But what about your unofficial view?" Sam inquired, bringing the conversation back to the original topic. He glanced to Carla, who had now returned to her seat, her lips still in that thin line that indicated she was on the way – if not already – upset that the topic had managed to wriggle its way into the middle of dinner. Across from her, Ami's quiet manner and the way she proceeded to continue eating seemed just slightly eerie to Sam, especially since she had now turned her attention away from her chicken leg to the barbequed chicken hearts that Carla had earlier explained were a delicacy all their own in Ami's mother's hometown of Bacolod City.

"Well," Alfonso began; speaking in a way that made it clear what he was about to say was very important. "There's something you have to understand about the Filipino community here in Ocean City. We're a pretty tightly knit bunch. It comes with being a minority. We're not like the Filipinotowns in Bethesda or elsewhere here in Maryland. At most, you've got ten families who've lived here for about three or four generations: The Rodriguez family, for instance, or ours – since Carla and I are third generation."

He paused, taking a small sip from his half-empty glass of water, "Before some of the nurses moved over, as well as those who now work for the hotels and resorts, those ten families – ours included – formed a very close group: the older generation pretty much made sure of that." His brow seemed to furrow and the fine lines of age across his forehead deepened somewhat. "But ever since these murders happened… Well, there's been talk going on."

Both boys leaned forward, though not so much as to look too eager for the information. "What kind of talk?" Sam prompted, resisting the urge to glance over to Dean.

Al shook his head, "Talk that could get me early retirement and a room in an asylum." He waited awhile, watching both boys to see how they might react, and when neither said anything, he continued:

"The younger generation, mostly those who were born and raised here in the United States, think that it's a serial killer. It's understandable. It's the reasonable explanation." He shifted in his seat, straightening. "But there are others – those mostly from the older generations, and a few from the younger half who were either raised in the Philippines or who were particularly close to their own grandparents. These people think that it might be something else."

There it was, another pause, a silence that seemed only broken by the clinking of silverware against porcelain plates that continued despite the topic at hand.

"You hear a lot of things when you interview people." Al stated the words matter-of-factly, though the look in his eyes expressed worry, "Some of the things that I've been told – because these people know me, know my family – people have asked to put off record because they don't want to sound crazy." He fell silent again for a moment; as if weighing his words and the content of them, considering that he was telling this to two boys he didn't really know. "These people might live in modern times, but old habits – old beliefs die hard. I'm not ashamed to say that we tend to be a superstitious bunch that isn't afraid to attribute things we can't understand to the supernatural. I don't expect you to understand. But you see, it's not uncommon for you to hear families tell ghost stories about a loved one who may have passed on physically, only to linger in ancestral homes, shaking beds that strangers shouldn't be lying down in; or about other things that might happen in the provinces that we trace our bloodlines back to.

"So if you plan to poke around and ask about, I'm warning you now that you might hear talk about how it's not a person who's doing the killing. That it's something else. Something not human."

It seemed like he could have said more – should be saying more, but instead Al just leaned back against the rest of his seat, taking in a deep breath and exhaling it before finally polishing off what was left of the water that had turned lukewarm in his glass.

The silence, to say the least, was uncomfortable, and before it could drag on, Dean broke out in laughter – a well practiced act that Sam had witnessed him hone over the years. It was a laugh that Dean adjusted to charm women, or to dismiss things – much like this one – especially when their cover called for it. Right now Dean's cover was that of a cop. And cops didn't buy into talk of monsters. _Especially_ not from other cops. "You're actually suggesting it might be a ghost or some other creepy-ass—"

"You asked what I thought. What I've heard." Al's voice was even, if bordering on cold, and they interrupted Dean's little spiel without hesitation. He looked to each of the boys, his gaze level, distant. Different from the man who had shared the history of their family, who had teased them about living a little and trying what was laid out for them on his table. "Maybe I shouldn't have said anything, but you asked and that's what I know. I can understand that it's hard to believe. I didn't expect you to agree. I'm just telling things as they are. As they stand."

They were squaring off, of a sorts. Al on the defensive against two individuals whom his sister had invited into their home. Sam couldn't help but empathize a little with him. He imagined what the intrusion felt like. He'd felt nearly the same way about Dean barging in suddenly all those months ago in Palo Alto.

But there was always that reassurance that Dean knew his way around people. Or could at least find his way, given the opportunity.

"You're serious about this." His brother's face had changed again. Dean was serious now, having realized that he'd offended someone who had probably seen something – maybe not here, maybe not now, not this particular creature – but _something_. That much could be deciphered from the older man's eyes and the way he talked. "You believe them."

"I'm keeping an open mind on the matter." Al gestured, "But talking to you now, officer to officer, those girls, Em—" his voice choked slightly at the mention of their friend's name, "The way they died, how their families never heard them die – not _once_. The houses indicating no sign of forced entry. They were _safe_." He stressed the last word just as he leaned forward. "Or should have been."

And just like that, it seemed like the light had gone out in Al's eyes. And his voice was soft when he spoke. "I've only heard of that kind of killing in stories."

Sam all but counted his heartbeats, waiting a moment before finally asking: "What stories?" A heavy air had fallen over the table. A hush that all but smothered.

"The _manananggal_." It was Carla who murmured the unfamiliar word, and when Sam looked over to her, her thumbnail was pinched between her teeth, her eyes slightly... haunted. He reached over instinctively and squeezed her free hand; the fingers slightly limp against the table.

"A what?" Dean asked, his gaze moving from his brother and Carla, and back over to Al.

"It's a creature from Philippine folklore," Al replied, his voice softer than before. The room seemed dimmer then, as he recounted the old folk story that a grandaunt had recounted for them. He explained what it was, what the word meant, and how a beautiful woman by day could, on certain nights, transform into a grotesque monster by splitting her body in half. He explained how this creature went flying off into the night, sometimes with a little bird leading her to a chosen victim's home where she would then perch upon the roof to extend a long, proboscis-like tongue as thin as thread through the nooks and crannies and down into the room below.

"From there, she sucks out her victim's innards..." Al swirled his now empty glass.

"The M.O.," Dean murmured, his mouth resting against his fisted hand.

"She drains her victims completely dry," Carla overlapped, her hand still slack in Sam's. "And... afterwards, she flies back to wherever she left the bottom half of her body, reconnects with it, and returns to normal life." Her eyes seemed almost dull. "And no one's ever the wiser."

The story made Dean grimace. "Man, that is one sick bitch," he muttered under his breath, only to receive a warning kick in the shin from his brother.

"Why are you so quick to peg it down on the… _manananggal_?" Sam asked, the word tumbling awkwardly from his lips. Carla smiled a little at the way his American accent mangled the pronunciation of the word. "And how come you believe it so easily?"

Carla shrugged slightly, her eyes flickering down to her plate. "We just do."

"But if that's the case how'd it get here?" Dean pressed suddenly, forgetting his cover thanks to this newfound concern. "If what you say is true, and it's from the Philippines, then how the hell could it have gotten here? Demons can't cross moving water, and the ocean's one big bowl of moving water."

Carla smiled briefly, looking across to Dean with a faint hint of amusement in her eyes. "And here I thought only Sam had a thing for knowing about the supernatural." She murmured softly, and Dean would have asked what exactly she meant by that, but Al spoke again, steering the conversation back to him:

"A _manananggal_ is practically normal most of the time, except when it transforms to feed." The ex-marine murmured, one hand rubbing the back of his neck. "It's like a human in every aspect save the fact that it transforms into a monster every now and again, so it's not too far-fetched that it could have traveled, taken a plane to get here. Given the influx of people looking for work or joining up with family." He paused, and his voice fell soft again, with just a hint of foreboding. "It could be just about anyone in this community."

"It runs in families sometimes," Ami said then, drawing the brothers' attention since that was the first time she'd spoken so far. Her plate was clean, the barbeque stick clear of the hearts that had been strung up like beads on a wire. "Being a _manananggal_ is passed down in families, sometimes." She said it matter-of-factly, but softly. "It doesn't happen in all of them, of course, but it does."

The doorbell rang then, breaking the somber mood that had settled on those gathered at the table. "I'll... get it," Carla pulled her hand away from Sam's, rising from her seat to answer the door. The four sat in silence as she crossed the living room to the foyer, and stayed quiet still even when Carla's voice feigned cheerfulness as she exchanged words with whoever it was who had come to call.

The sound of the door closing and two sets of footsteps approaching, prompted the men to straighten. When Carla reappeared, she was followed in by another girl much younger than her.

"Gela," Al stood and crossed to her, his hands slipping into his pockets as he approached. "Is everything okay?"

**xxx**

"Thanks for dinner, Carla."

Carla smiled as she stopped by the door, leaning against it to keep it open even as she folded her hands under her arms to ward away the chill. Inside, behind her, Al and Gela were seated in the living room, where they had all transferred shortly after her arrival. Dinner had ended rather abruptly, not that either of the boys complained given the circumstances.

Gela had turned out to be Angela Rodriguez, a niece of the same family whose home had been offered up to the Fletcher's for that morning's wake. She'd apparently dropped in to delivery something for the Tenorios. Mail, by the looks of it, brought in by a relation of the Cruz family who had flown in at the news of one Mara Cruz's death. Mara Cruz had been the second most recent victim, preceding Emily Fletcher by only a night.

_Never did like wakes_, Gela had murmured to all present, after she finally handed over the large brown envelope to Al.

"You're welcome. You two stay safe, okay?"

And Sam smiled, nodding, his own hands tucked inside the pockets of his jacket. "We will." With a last good night, Carla stepped back into the house, and closed the door behind her, leaving them to make their way across the street to the Impala.

"What d'you think?" Dean asked as he fished out the keys from his own pocket.

"Not sure," Sam answered, his mind spinning with all the information that they had just learned. He wasn't quite sure how he felt about how the information had come to them, but he was taking things with a grain of salt until he could process it more. He needed his laptop. Maybe he could find something on Wikipedia on the myth. It wasn't much, but it was something. "If we go by what Al said, then it could be anyone. And if we consider what he said about family connections, then we might be in for some trouble since no one's going to outright say who it is. If they even know who it is."

He looked over to Dean over the roof of the car, and promptly raised his eyebrows when he noted the look on his brother's face. "What?"

"Any of that come off weird to you at all?"

Sam frowned. "Weird? Why?"

Dean shook his head as if to dismiss the topic, and slid into the Impala to start the car. But when Sam settled down in the passenger seat, he continued what he'd started: "There's something not right about that family."

"Huh?" Sam looked over then, frowning. "What're you talking about?"

"_C'mon_ Sammy. Don't tell me you didn't notice. Or were you too busy making googly-eyes at 'Lala'?"

Sam pursed his lips into a thin line, and gave his brother his 'get to the point' look.

"Alfonso's a cop right? SWAT? It doesn't strike you too strange that he just told us he thinks that it's a monster that's killing all these people? And what's with that girl, Ami? Now, I don't know about you, but the way she just appeared on the landing, and that comment about the crucifix to keep something in as opposed to out, they're all just fishy to me." He stopped there, or at least seemed to, when he turned back to Sam with: "And did you see the way she ate those chicken hearts?"

Sam all but rolled his eyes. "You're overreacting. It's a delicacy where they're from. You heard Carla."

"Then how come Carla and Al weren't eating?"

"Maybe it's just not their thing." Though a tiny part of Sam told him that maybe his brother had something to what he'd just pointed out. Ami, for all that she seemed sweet to her extended family, just seemed a shade too far from the thin line dividing "Normal but Interesting" and "Not Normal and Very Strange". Her aloofness -- something that he might have dismissed as a quirk, as people were entitled to those -- bordered just on the edge of suspicious.

"As for Al, hey... you heard him say that they believe in superstitions. And people talk, Dean. We've heard crazier stories." But the look in Dean's eyes told him his brother wasn't quite convinced. So with a sigh, Sam shook his head, and leaned back against his seat. "Look, let's just get back to the motel and get some sleep okay?" Sam continued, dismissing the topic for the moment. They had a funeral to attend, and a few more things to research on before they turned in for bed.

With a grunt of assent, Dean revved up the engine and pulled out into the street, both boys unaware of the figure in the window, half-hidden by the curtain.


	4. Three

**Three**

The funeral was held at nine a.m., the sun warm over their heads, the sky clear of clouds. A brilliant day, too beautiful to be spent mourning the loss of yet another member of the community.

The service was small and intimate, despite Dean's speculation that half the town must have shown up to pay their last respects. The marker was set in place before the open grave, the coffin elevated by the mechanism that would eventually lower it into the ground after goodbyes were said. The words _Beloved wife, sister, daughter, mother-to-be. Lost too soon._ had been etched into the polished stone, and several white roses rested across the top, their petals bright under the sun.

A second name had been carved right below Emily's, the first name just vague enough to belong to either a boy or girl: _Andy Fletcher. Taken too early, loved no less._ He couldn't help but think that while the gesture was sweet, it was also terribly sad, and that sentiment made him just a little bit restless to leave; to leaf through his father's journal and polish up his guns. So many graves – he and Sam had noticed – were still fresh in the local cemetery, the mounds of earth still yet to settle with the passage of time and the pull of gravity. It made him just a little bit itchy for the trigger, his blood already humming with the desire to hunt – and kill – whatever it was that had taken the lives of so many young women, and so many unborn children.

Whoever this thing was, the bitch was going to pay. They were going to make sure of that.

He shifted his weight from one foot to the other and back again, one hand coming up to tug at the tie that seemed too tight. He would have been happy to just stand at the far the edge, a silent spectator to this age-old ritual of letting go, dressed in jeans and a shirt, the comfortable weight of his jacket on his shoulders. But Sam had insisted that they would attend the service, stand beside Carla and Al, and dress up in the black suits that they'd purchased for that gig back in Pennsylvania.

It made him feel uncomfortable really, being this close to all these people. It wasn't that he hadn't seen grief before, he'd seen plenty enough in the various stints that he and his father, or he and Sammy for that matter, had done over the last couple of weeks, months – years.

Lying about knowing the dearly departed just so that they could check the general area out for spectral matter and any other signs of supernatural activity was a necessary evil if they were to get to the bottom of things. It was just that this – _this_ – was too close for comfort. An intrusion almost. They were supposed to be passers-by, faces that people would eventually forget once they'd finished the case and moved on.

Standing beside his brother in the near-identical black suit with Carla and Al just on the other side of Sam was not 'keeping to the sidelines'.

"Lala, stop looking over your shoulder." Dean heard Al murmur softly.

"I'm just checking to see if Ami's here. She should be here. No matter what Luke says." Carla's voice bordered on worried. "Al, I'm gonna go—"

"No." The syllable was laced with finality. "I spoke to her this morning. She's here. You know her. She's probably just somewhere under one of the trees."

"Still, it wouldn't hur—"

"_Lala_."

There was a pause, followed by a soft, "Okay."

Up front, Luke Richardson stepped forward, his eyes shadowed with obvious grief. In his hand he held one of the roses from atop the grave marker, and it seemed to Dean that it was all the younger man could do not to break down as he stiffly laid the flower atop the mahogany case, a line of white light cutting across it's polished surface.

"_And as I walk in the valley of the shadow of death, I shall know no fear..._" The priest began, a soft whir filling the air as the coffin slowly descended into the earth. A woman's wail cut through the sound, the sound so broken Dean had to his face away. "We shouldn't be here," he murmured softly, so that only Sam could hear. "We shouldn't be wasting time—"

"Dean," Sam hushed him, "We'll talk la—"

But he was already walking away, and that same hand that he used to tug now viciously pulled off the tie that he'd already had enough of. They had a job to do, and standing around listening to people cry wouldn't get it done.

He could hear the footfalls racing after him. "Dean,"

"Careful where you step baby brother." He muttered off-handedly, coming to a stop underneath the shade of a tree that had seen better days. When he turned around, the tie was gone from his neck and was now half-shoved into the pocket of his slacks. He popped the stick of gum that he'd found in the glove compartment into his mouth and chewed.

"You can't just walk away from a funeral like that."

"I just did."

Sam threw him an exasperated look. "I thought we'd agreed that checking out the funeral might help us narrow down who the creature is."

"IknowIknowIknow." Dean replied, the words running together. He sighed, stuffing one hand into the coat pocket and looking back to where the crowd was finally breaking up. "I just don't understand why you had to insist on attending. Not like we knew her, y'know." He glanced back to Sam who just gave him one of _those looks_. Dean sighed again. "So what. Any ideas who it might be?"

The shrug that answered him was expected.

"I dunno Dean, I'm still wondering about whether or not a creature like that would hang around and pay it's last respects to the one that it killed. Maybe it's not here." Sam shook his head, one hand coming up to run through the mop of hair on his head. "I mean, I looked through the internet last night and found an article for it in Wikipedia among whatever else I could pull up on the search. There's a Malaysian version of it called the _penanggalan_, which detaches only it's head, but other than an expanded article that basically recaps whatever we've been told, I have nothing else to go on."

Dean nodded. "Did you find out how to kill it?" He'd fallen asleep almost as soon as his back touched the bed. Driving several hours straight could do that to a guy.

"Salt, as usual. Or crushed garlic." Sam replied, his hands sliding into the coat pockets to ward away the cold. "Which we have to pour over the lower half of the body while it's flying off somewhere. And then there's broken shards of glass – but that's for the penanggalan, though I'm not writing it out."

"So we have to _wait_ until it goes off to hunt again?"

Sam's thin and obviously unhappy smile was not what he wanted to see, but was what Dean got. "They're supposedly like vampires, so daylight's the only thing that kills them for sure. The salt and garlic are to prevent them from becoming whole again." Sam explained, recounting whatever information he managed to pull the night before. "And they have a preference for the blood of unborn children or the blood of women who recently delivered a child."

"Sick." Dean muttered, his nose twitching just a bit at the thought. He straightened, shrugging off the coat. "So now we're back to figuring out who the hell the thing is in the daytime."

"'fraid so." Sam murmured in reply, his head turning to where Al, Carla and Gela were walking towards them. They let the topic drop for the moment, greeting the three with nods of acknowledgement.

"_Tita_ Madel told me that you're all invited to lunch." Gela told them, looking from the Tenorios to the Winchesters. "I know you might find it strange," she looked to the boys, "heading over to a prepared lunch set out just after the funeral. But it's our way, and it's practical since I think most people here got out of bed and didn't bother with breakfast." She looked over her should and lifted a hand to acknowledge someone who was waving back to her in return. When she turned back, she continued. "It was the least we could do for Bobby and Luke. This has been so hard for them."

"We'll be there." Carla smiled, giving the girl's hand a squeeze, and Dean noted the rather shy smile that Gela sent to Al, though her gaze slid back to Carla. "I think everyone would feel just a little bit safer having you and Al around."

"Me?" Carla attempted to give the conversation a lighter edge. "Al, maybe with his big guns and macho demeanor. But me?" She shook her head. "We'll be there. Tell _tita_ that."

"Luke, _please_!"

The familiar, if pained, voice cut into the conversation, and all five turned their attention to where Ami was trying to keep up with a once more angry-looking Luke.

"Cathy," he said to the young woman that he guided away from Ami, her stomach swollen just enough to indicate that she was a mother-to-be. "Go with Bobby. I'll catch up."

"Luke, we were just talking—"

"Cathy," his voice sliced her name like a knife, silencing her confused protest. "Go. To. Bobby." And without another word the woman turned away, walking briskly into the general direction of where the Fletchers had gathered with friends. When Luke turned back to Ami, his jaw was set. But his voice was even and just a little bit soft when he spoke: "I told you not to come near us again."

"Luke, I'm just trying to—"

"Quit _harassing_ my friends, Ami. Quit talking to me and my family and everyone else who knew Em." He fell silent, his jaw working as he stared at her with a mix of hurt and frustration. "You know that? I wish I'd never gotten involved with you." He stepped back, away from her and looked up, finally seeing that Al and Carla were standing not too far away. He seemed to hesitate a moment, his eyes sliding over the other three figures standing with the Tenorios, before turning around and walking away to other familiar faces.

As for Ami, she stayed rooted to where she was, her eyes reflecting a gaze similar to that of a child who'd just been told to get lost and stay lost. From Luke's retreating back, her gaze turned to the two siblings who regarded her as family and she turned away, her hands tucked against her torso when she crossed her arms over her chest.

It didn't take long for Carla to say, "Excuse us," smiling weakly before she and Al left Gela, Dean and Sam to move over to the younger girl.

The three walked off, each sibling flanking Ami, Al's arm almost protective around her shoulders even as Carla's hand lingered against the small of the girl's back. It was a picture of solidarity, of a united front and of support.

"I don't want to be nosy, but uh," Dean started, not quite sure what to make of these little bouts of drama. This was the second time that Luke and Ami had created a scene before the whole crowd of people, and while it was none of his business, he couldn't help but wonder at the unsaid things that might shed light on the words 'stay away from my family'.

"Why is Luke mad at Ami?" Gela offered up, a wince lacing her words. Both boys nodded to her and she made a face – a cross between hesitation and a grimace. "It's a long story." She said simply, as if those four words would be enough to explain everything.

But Sam piped up by saying, "We've got time," shifting in a way that the three of them made a closed, little circle. "We were there," he continued, "at your house – well, your family's house," he added when Gela looked up at him in confusion. "Yesterday. At the wake?" She nodded then in response, but her brows were knit together in a frown that indicated she didn't quite understand where this was leading. "My brother and I were there when Luke all but threw Ami out of the house."

"Oh, right." Gela nodded, her eyes downcast. "That one." She folded her own arms over her stomach, and exhaled as the wind picked up around them. She waited awhile for it to pass, squinting as it rushed by, fluttering fallen leaves and what few still clung to the branches. When the gust died down, she spoke again, her voice slow and wary, as if she shouldn't be saying anything at all.

"It's just small town drama, really. Luke and Ami were going out for a couple months and now it's gone sour." She stated simply as if she wanted to end it there. But both boys seemed to wait for further explanation, so she continued: "She was always over at the Fletchers, you see. Took a shine to Em. Helped around since she'd finished her college course ahead of Carla, and was the only one at their house more often than not since Al was off doing cop-business." She shook her head. "Em liked her well enough. Some of the families would even tease that maybe Luke would settle down in the neighborhood, marry Ami since they looked good together. Besides, the elders always appreciated her inclination to family. She always cooed over the babies in a way that prompted even my Tita – I mean, my _Aunt_ Madel to say is an indication that she'd make a great mother."

Sam frowned, not quite following, and Gela spoke again, smiling sheepishly at deviating from the whole point and continued: "The thing is. Luke's scared of her now. He even said it's like she's cursed or something. Not to mention weird sometimes, which I have to admit, creeps even me out on occasion."

"Wait," Dean interrupted. "Weird?"

Gela seemed to swallow and sighed heavily. "I don't mean any disrespect. I'd probably get scolded for saying so. But she's... nosy, you know? Extremely. She makes it a point to know everyone, as if she were a relative or something – which she's not." She inhaled and expelled a breath. "I understand that some of the older people knew her dad, and since a lot of the families hail from the Visayas region of the Philippines, it's not that uncommon for you to know names. Little islands and little towns make that easy. You can trace the ties, and there's a particular value on that... community feeling."

"But every single one of the women who died – Tintin, Sari, Mags, and the others – Ami hung around them a lot. And then Em..." She trailed off then, looking away, her hand coming up to cover her mouth.

"Ignore me, please." She all but whispered. "You probably think I'm talking nonsense."

"It's okay." Sam murmured. "From what I hear, it's been pretty crazy lately. But I'm sure Ami it's just coincidence. Ami seems sweet enough."

Gela nodded sagely. "I know." She shook her head. "My grandmother would likely scold me if she knew I was thinking this way." She breathed then, and offered a weary smile. "Anyway, I uh... I'll leave you guys for now." She gestured to where a group of people were gathered. "They need me to help out. Drop by for the lunch if you can. It's open for everyone. The family wouldn't mind." She stepped back and away, turning only once more to say: "It was nice meeting you guys again."

And for awhile the brothers stood in silence, watching and waiting until the cemetery cleared of people, until the only voices heard were those of the men who tended to the headstones.

It was Dean who cued their departure with a quick movement of fishing out the keys from the depths of his slacks' pocket. "Let's roll." He muttered softly, careful of where he lay his feet, careful not to tread over graves. "Let's get back to the motel. I think the starch on this thing is making me itch."

**xxx**

The moon's light was thin and trembling, drawing vague shadows on the ground. On any other night, it might have been just a little eerie, enough to spur people's footsteps a little faster in order to get home. But the events of the previous few days had given a more than simply eerie quality to the night. There were hardly any people out, and those that still were moved at an almost-jog, reaching doors and locking them securely upon entering.

It didn't take a genius to recognize the signs of a troubled neighborhood, and Sam could understand just why that was. The people living here had never worried about murders and serial killings before, believing such things to be part of the world but completely separate from what and who they were.

But the recent murders had touched close – entirely too close – to the heart of the community, which was why everyone was more than just a little on-edge.

He noticed movement out of the corner of his eye, stirring from his thoughts just as the Tenorio's front door opened. Beside him, in the driver's seat, Dean sat up as well, his eyes focusing on the young woman who had just stepped out.

The stakeout was initially planned for the night after Emily Fletcher's funeral, but they couldn't do that – not then, at any rate. They needed to prepare.

They'd both agreed that a little but more research wouldn't hurt, but the biggest article that Sam had dug up was the one from Wikipedia, and no matter how many others they located, and all other sites were only variations on the same theme.

Then finally, while scouring the local library, Dean found their most important find yet: a book entitled _Creatures of Lower Philippine Mythology_, written by one Maximo D. Ramos. It was an old, detailed anthropological study of Philippine folklore, with descriptions of habits, strengths and weaknesses. Dean had murmured that if he didn't know better, he'd say that this Ramos guy had been a hunter himself, or had known hunters – after all, why would _anyone_ put so much effort in tabulating so much important information other than as a resource.

But whether that was true or not, the bottom line was: for Dean and Sam, it was a godsend.

"Did you load the shotguns with the salt shells?" Dean asked, his voice low and quiet though there really wasn't a need for it.

Sam nodded, his gaze focused on Ami's back. "Yeah."

"Good." Dean's gaze never faltered, even as he drove, his peripheral vision ensuring that they didn't bump into anything like trash cans or the sidewalk curb itself. The Impala's headlights were turned off as not to draw any attention. If Ami decided to turn around, it was only a matter of Dean hitting the brakes with one foot while they both ducked out of sight until she moved on.

They drove for about fifteen to twenty minutes, following Ami as she walked out of the neighborhood and into town. Silence reigned the whole time, that slight pressure of alertness bearing down on them, until Dean asked softly: "What did Carla mean when she said that she thought no one could beat you for knowing all about supernatural stuff?"

"Huh?" Sam glanced at his brother, confused by the sudden question. "What are you talking about?"

"Remember the time we had dinner at the Tenorio place? I slipped and mentioned that demons don't cross moving water, and she looked at me kind of funny and said that she thought you were the only one who knew so much about demons and that kind of stuff."

"Oh, uh... well, I told her some stuff that Dad taught us along the way. She's into folklore and mythology and it was one of those first few things that we spoke about. That's how we met in my World Mythologies class. We'd end up correcting each other or the professor in charge." Now that he thought about it, though, hadn't Carla mentioned that she wanted to study folklore for her thesis? It explained why she'd been so interested in his ideas; why she'd been so attentive to all the detail he could provide. "Why?"

"Don't you think she knows too much?"

Sam shrugged at first, not quite understanding where Dean was headed with the topic. "So Carla's into that sort of thing. If she knows a lot, it's because she's interested. I don't seriously think she really believes in any of it."

Both Dean's eyebrows lifted, a disbelieving look in his eyes. "Oh yeah? Was I the only one at that dinner? How you do explain that look she got on her face when Al wanted to talk about the murders? Or, in fact, the look that she got when they brought up the _manananggal_? How do you explain the looks she and Ami exchange as if they've got some big I-know-something-nobody-else-does secret?" Dean's grip on the steering wheel tightened, his jaw tensing as he thought more and more on it. "Those two are downright chummy, and the way things are going, I'd say that Carla's trying to cover something up."

Now that was just too much. "Dean, Carla's my _friend_. I don't think she'd try to do something like that."

"Family looks out for family. Isn't that what she said?"

"Dean. This is ridiculous. You can't possibly be suggesting that Carla knew anything about the thing that killed all those people. Much less that she wouldn't speak up about it. Her brother's a _cop_ for crying out loud. He wouldn't stand for that. Not when they have so much value for this community."

"Al's probably got a thing for Ami then. Have you seen how he tenses up when Luke yells at her? And how he watches her like a hawk? That article said the creatures are native to Capiz right? Probably keep the damn thing as pets, if you ask me."

Sam clamped his teeth together, one hand coming up to press fingers against his temple. "Just because Carla's from Capiz doesn't mean they associate with the things." He murmured quietly. "I think you're overreacting."

"Look, Sammy," Dean pressed on, "I know you've got this concern for all your college friends since they're part of that 'normal life' that you ended leaving behind. But let's be realistic—"

"Dean."

"–not every since person on the planet is as—"

"DEAN!"

"_What?_"

"She's gone."

"What?!"

In a heartbeat, they were both out of the car, sawed-off shotgun in one hand as the other closed respective doors. Dean fell into step beside him, their strides matched, long and purposeful with just enough caution. "I think I saw her duck into the alley." He murmured to his brother. "Do you think she noticed that we were tailing her?"

"I dunno." Dean murmured, taking the other end of the alley. "But if she did and she comes at us, shoot, okay? We'll figure out what to tell Carla and Al later."

Sam fell in step beside his brother, pulling out a penlight out from his pocket. "We're not shooting her." He said softly, more for himself than Dean. The yellow beam bounced on the concrete in front of them as they walked further in. The air smelled musty, with just a whiff of garbage from a dumpster that someone must have forgotten to close.

"Suit yourself. I'm shooting." Dean replied, taking the other end of the alley. "Dammit, she's fast."

Somewhere up ahead, the soft patter of footsteps echoed back towards them, the pace making a sound as if someone wearing sneakers was starting to walk a bit faster than was normal for a relaxed pace. Without having to glance at his brother, Sam picked up the pace, knowing that they were hot on Ami's trail – or at least, he hoped it was Ami.

They emerged on another street, and this time, when they looked up, they watched a shadow stretching itself along a wall in another alleyway just across from them. Without another word, they jogged after it, heedless of any oncoming traffic – not that they were expecting any, since a curfew had been implemented after dark and the citizens themselves had come to associate night with danger.

Dean was mouthing something to him as they slowed down, keeping to the walls and the shadows as not to attract any undue attention.

But the scream that cut across his eardrums just as they stepped into the shadow of the alleyway practically curdled his blood, and almost simultaneously, they broke into a sprint. This was no time for stealth; someone was getting killed, and if they didn't move fast, another woman would die tonight.

Shotguns at the ready, the two of them burst out of the alley and into the space beyond, illuminated by harsh, white light over back door of what turned out to be a small maternity clinic. It took a while for his eyes to adjust to the light, but when they did, Sam immediately took in the scene, with all the gruesome details:

There was a young woman dressed in pink scrubs lying on the pavement, and blood was randomly splattered on the walls and floor, though these didn't seem enough to indicate a drained body. One brief glimpse of her features, despite the harsh play of shadow and light, indicated that this was the same Cathy – full name, Catherine Anderson, who was one of Emily's close friends.

Sam's heart hitched in his chest when she moaned in pain, one hand's fingers curling inward. "She's still alive." He breathed, and they approached slowly, keeping their guns trained at the figure kneeling over her, the sound of gagging echoing ominously in the alleyway.

It was Dean who stepped the closest, enough to reach out to the shoulder that shook with every retch. And as he recognized the battered sneakers of the girl they'd been tailing Sam's stomach all but plummeted to his toes.

She looked up suddenly then, as if only aware in that very instant that there were others in the alley other than her and the unconscious girl. Her dark, cat-shaped eyes were startled and eerily childlike, a mix of shock reflecting in their depths. Despite the blood spattered all over her white shirt dress, the same red fluid coating her fingers and dripping from her mouth, Ami looked the picture of innocence.

Sam shifted his weight, legs braced as if standing on a ship. He pointed dead-center between her eyebrows, ready to shoot if she gave him reason to. "Sam?" She croaked, swallowing and then pitching forward, one hand coming up to catch whatever it was her body was rejecting.

Sam turned his gaze to Dean, whose confused look he imagined mirrored his own. "I thought you said she had to change before eating people up?"


	5. Four

**Four**

The loud banging sound on the front door was more than enough to make Alfonso Tenorio sit up in bed and reach for a nonexistent firearm, all other senses alert to make up for his still adjusting eyesight.

It took him a few seconds to realize where he was, to ground himself in reality. It was then that he remembered: he was at home, in his room, in his bed, and not in the middle of a warzone half a world away.

But the banging on the front door was real enough, and he quickly threw back the covers, awake and alert as he quickly padded barefoot down the hall, the stairs and to the foyer, a still-sleepy Carla trailing softly behind him.

He had barely opened the door a crack when it was pushed open by the whoever it was outside, and he frowned when Sam Winchester stepped into view, his face set in grim lines - a sawed-off shotgun tucked under his arm.

"What the hell–" Al began, the words dying in his throat to be replaced by a deep-seated rage when he saw Dean Winchster drag Ami into the foyer, her hair disheveled and her dress and face bloodied.

He didn't give them or himself any time to think. Instinct coupled with reflexes that had kept him alive in the midst of battle took over: he reached out, pulled Ami quickly away from Dean, and proceeded to grab the other man by the front of his shirt, slamming him against the nearby wall. "What the fuck did you do to her?!" He roared, seeing mad-white instead of red.

"Al!" Carla, suddenly wide-awake, all but jumped from where she stood on the stairs, utterly horrified by the sight of her brother looking ready to pummel someone into a bloody pulp. "Al! What are you doing?!" She stopped dead at the sight of Ami, who stood off to the side, her head bowed, her fingers only half curled in as she seemed to reacquaint herself with her surroundings.

"'mi?" Carla swallowed, and reached out, only to be brushed aside as Al turned away from Dean, releasing the younger man for the moment.

Worry dominated the look in the elder Tenorio's eyes, and the tone of his voice struggled to regain calm as he cupped the small girl's face in his hands, turning her gaze to his. "Ami, honey, are you okay? What happened to you? Did they do anything to you? Did they _hurt_ you?" He bent protectively over her, enfolding her into his arms as if to keep all else away.

Turning one brief, vicious glance to the two Winchesters, there was nothing to prevent his thoughts from racing rapid in his mind. If they so much as hurt her, so help him God...

"I'm okay." Ami pulled back, shaking her head. Her palms flat against the expanse of his chest, pushing him off from her in a manner that was well-meant but no less of a bite on his pride.

"They didn't do anything." She seemed to hesitate a moment before turning her eyes up to his, but the weak smile she offered calmed him enough to let his arms drop to his sides. "I'm okay, Al, really." Her hand brushed against his, and he nodded, satisfied with her answer. For now.

"It's not her blood," Sam said quietly then, and attention turned to the two young men standing like unwelcome guests by the door. "It's Cathy's." He continued, prompting a sudden hush.

"What?" Carla blinked, coming to stand at her brother's side. "Sam, what do you mea–"

"What the hell are you talking about?" Al looked from Sam to Dean, dark eyes boring into each intently with all the force of a rage that threatened to bubble up from inside.

"Al," Ami interrupted, leaning almost bonelessly against the wall, and when he looked over, she met his gaze, speaking softly: "_Pamati anay_. I'm fine, okay? But I don't think they are." She nodded to the boys, her eyes lingering on Dean's wary stance. Folding her arms lightly over her stomach, she continued: "Sam's right," and she took a breath, "but he's also wrong." She turned her gaze to Carla, "This isn't mine. But it also isn't Cathy's."

"What happened to Cathy?" Carla ventured the question, coming to stand at Ami's side, a trembling hand lightly reaching up to curl over the smaller girl's forearm. But Ami looked away, her eyes dark, as if thinking of something that she did not want to see.

"I know who she is." Her voice quivered, and both brother and sister stilled, not daring to look at each other even for support. "Who is what, 'mi?" Carla asked carefully, her fingers curling tighter.

"The _manananggal_," she looked to Carla, eyes wide this time. "I know who she is."

**xxx**

"You are not to leave the house." The tone was so final despite the hush of Al's voice, that even Dean had to lift his eyebrows in surprise.

They – himself, his brother, Carla, Al and Ami – were all seated in the living room of the Tenorio house, not really huddled in conference, but close enough. A tray of mugs were set a little off-center on the coffee table, some of their contents half-finished, others still untouched. It was a flimsy offering of momentary truce, an attempt to soothe the tension that had bit everyone in the rear.

It was now roughly an hour since they'd arrived at the front steps of the house. More than an hour since they dropped Cathy off at the nearest hospital, Sam handing out a story that was both convenient and plausible:

_My brother and I were driving back to the motel we're staying at from visiting the Tenorios. We heard a scream from an alley, and backtracked quickly enough to interrupt a mugging. No we did not see the attacker. Yes, that is all we know._

Dean had remained in the car, parked far away enough so that people would just skim over and not poke around where they weren't wanted. He had drummed his fingers on the dashboard as the minutes ticked by. Ami had been quiet in the back, gagged and tied at the wrists.

He and Sam had argued about that last part. The whole _we don't know that she did this_ spiel right on cue. But since the only other option was to stuff her in the trunk, Sam had conceded, albeit reluctantly.

And now here they were, Ami sitting on the couch across from him, dressed in a fresh shirt and a pair of woolen pants, her attention focused on the immovable edict written on Al's face.

"Al–" she started, her own eyes wide, only to be cut off by the harsh hiss of "You _should have told us_," as the older man rose abruptly from his seat to step out from their immediate circle. He stood a distance away, the space there presumably to allow him room to think.

It looked like something out of a daytime soap, Dean mused, having seen a number of those in the last couple of months, usually to pass the time in cheap motels, waiting for night to come. And while he would have normally joked about the amount of drama this family seemed to have in and out of the house, the situation at hand left little to laugh about.

Clearing his throat, Dean shifted in his seat to lean forward, forearms resting against his thighs. "So she tells you that she's stalking the thing and then what? You shoot it?"

"Dean–"

"Just a minute, Sammy. I want to hear what Al here has to say."

But Alfonso said nothing, his gaze steady and unblinking as he met Dean's gaze. The tension in the air seemed a reenactment of that night that the Winchesters had first stepped into this house, invited to dinner where casual conversation turned to topics that normally wouldn't suit a meal.

"Al," Ami started again, drawing his attention back to her. "_Indi pwede na matinir nalang ko di sa balay_." Beside Dean, Sam observed the exchange quietly. He didn't need to know what the words meant to understand the urgency and protest in Ami's tone. "What about Cathy? She's not safe. Not even in the hospital. Not even in the midst of people."

"From what I understand of it, 'mi, she came after you. Not Cathy."

"Cathy's pregnant. She needs someone to look out for her. For the baby inside of her."

"She is not your responsibility and I am _not_ letting you out of this house."

Ami's face took on a look of exasperation, and finally her voice dropped soft and low, another string of words in that foreign language tumbling out like the purposeful rush of water. When she finished, it wasn't hard for both boys to take note of the flush that had spread across Al's face, and Sam suspected that whatever it was that Ami just said had hit home, and hard.

Seconds crept by, and Ami turned her face away in a gesture that spoke more of defiance than defeat. For a moment, Sam thought that he saw something in Al's eyes – something that hinted that the older man just might concede, opting for compromise instead of steadfast, stubborn resolve. But in a blink the look was gone, and Al's eyes had hardened again, his jaw setting itself into an angle that gave no room for exceptions. "If you have a problem with me keeping you from getting yourself killed, then so be it." He said curtly, his voice raspy as though getting the words out were so difficult a task. "You're not leaving the house."

Awkward silence settled, with Al sitting back down in the empty space he'd left upon standing and Ami resolute in blatantly ignoring his presence. Her eyes, Sam noted, were hard and guarded; her expression dispassionate, almost.

"I'll go get the _tawas_," Carla murmured then, rising from where she sat beside the smaller girl, to pass quickly between her brother and her friend with her head bowed. She moved towards the kitchen in what appeared to be a hasty retreat from the quiet conflict in the living room, not once looking back to check on her family. After taking one last glance at Al and Ami, Sam concluded that it was probably in his own best interests to follow suit, and with a soft "excuse me," he rose from his seat to make a similar beeline for the kitchen.

He found Carla kneeling down in front of the cabinet underneath the sink, the girl taking one quick look around before she reached in to pull out a large, old-fashioned glass jar filled with a powdery white substance that could be anything from salt or sugar to cocaine.

"What is that?" Sam asked, drawing her attention up to him, towering over her from where he stood.

"_Tawas_," Carla replied, her voice surprisingly matter-of-fact in light of everything that had just transpired. She stood and brushed lightly at her knees before moving past him to the centerpiece of the room. Setting the jar down on the island in the middle of the kitchen, she popped open the lid of the jar to inspect the contents. "It's to keep the _manananggal_ away." She said almost absently, her gaze revealing just how distracted – or perhaps _focused_ – she was.

"Is _tawas_ a word in your language for salt?" Sam murmured curiously.

"No," Carla replied, "Salt is _asin_," puttering around the kitchen drawers until she pulled out a small, paper-thin towel. "This is ammonium alum. It's what _arbularios_ – medicine men and women in the Philippines – use as a means of warding off unpleasant entities." She looked up at him just briefly, and then turned back to her work. "A handful in a makeshift pouch would be enough for Ami to wear on her person without it being too cumbersome." She murmured to herself, as if blocking out all else in the room.

Sam watched as Carla pulled off the black hair tie that held her dark locks away from her face with one hand, thereafter scooping up a handful of the powdery substance with another and setting it gently in the center of the towel.

Four corners folded and three loops later, it was just what she'd just said it would be: a pouch small enough to carry inside a person's pocket.

He stood there a moment, awkward in her presence, and then Carla shifted, palms flat on the table, her mouth working as if to get out the words before she finally lifted her eyes to meet his: "Would you mind telling me just why you're _really_ here?" Her voice was barely above a whisper, but the look in her eyes made him wince. It was a look that he'd hoped to avoid days ago, and was one that asked for his attention now.

It was a look that said simply, tiredly: _I cannot believe you lied to me._

"I wish I could say that I had an idea, but I think any of the ones I could think up won't quite hit the mark." She rocked back on her heels a moment, her fingers drumming lightly against the counter before she lifted her eyes to his face again.

"But this is what I _do_ know: your brother isn't a cop, and that's because sawed-off shotguns are ten different kinds of illegal in practically every state across America and no cop would be stupid enough to tote one of those around." A wry look crossed her face. "Unless the cop was really just born stupid to being with."

Sam shifted uncomfortably, one hand finding solace in the pocket of his jacket where some loose change felt cold and hard against his fingertips. A little over a foot away, Carla squared her shoulders, hands now on her hips. "And while I'm thankful that you guys seemed to have intervened, saving Ami from the same fate as all the other girls, I think you owe me an explanation as to _why_ you managed to _be there_ in the first place."

It wasn't that he didn't know what to say – he did. But how to say it without making her any more hurt or angry was the difficult part. So Sam opened his mouth and closed it just as quickly, voice failing him as he swallowed the unspoken words, a soft "Carla," interrupted by a ragged intake of breath and quivering words:

"_Please_ tell me you were following her because your brother found a lead and it made you think she was the next victim." Carla's eyes searched his. _Please_, they seemed to say. _Please tell me I'm right_. "Because frankly, Sam, the last thing I want to hear right now is that the real reason you knew and know _so much_ about all things supernatural is because of _something_ that has _nothing_ to do with plain old interest."

"What're we supposed to say then? Hey, we're the Ghost Busters. Mind letting us kill off that annoying monster you've got slaughtering your womenfolk?"

It was Dean now, standing in the kitchen doorway, one arm braced on the opening, the other limp at his side. The barrel of his shotgun was facing the floor and Sam wanted to chew his brother out for not putting it away.

"You think she did this." The hitch in Carla's barely whispered words sent Sam's stomach careening like a runaway train.

"Carla it's not that–" he turned, reaching out to her, and pressed his lips together as she pulled away, snatching back the hand that he'd just barely touched. "No." She whispered, the horror in her eyes a quiet stab at him. "_No_." She repeated again, her gaze turning away from his to his brother. "That's just... no. That's insane."

"Defensive, aren't we?" Dean quipped, his eyes trained and suspicious on Carla.

"Dean, don't."

"Shut up, Sammy." In two breaths Dean crossed the space, walking over to Carla, his gaze steady and sober with just the hint of edge. He didn't give her a chance to protest, plunging headlong into what he had to say. "Look, the way I see it, my brother and I are dealing with a problem. One that the rest of you can't seem to handle. One about things that go 'bump' in the night, reaching out and snatching away lives." He smirked, just a little sardonically, almost leering down at her. "What the hell is that for?" He pointed to the jar.

Sam slid between them, not quite sure whether it was because he wanted his brother to back away, or if it was because Carla needed protecting. "Dean, just can it, all right?"

"Not all of us are as unaware and naive about such things as you might think, Dean Winchester," Carla whispered, and Sam looked over to see that her eyes had shut him out. "I might not use a gun to shoot, and my knowledge of the supernatural may be more of a legacy than a personal crusade on all things perceived evil, but don't you dare accuse me or my family of things we haven't done."

Her jaw tensed and she brushed past the boys to stand before the jar again. "To answer your question, though I've already explained that to Sam: this is for _protection_." She pulled out another towel and smoothed it on the counter. "I was considering making one for the both of you, but now I'm thinking you won't need or want any help if it comes from us."

Dean expelled a soft, if disbelieving sound. "Christ... you guys come off creepier than the Addams Family." His own brow twitched as he tilted his head to one side. "So what are you then, huh?"

"Just a person," Carla answered evenly. "A human being just like everyone else."

"Bullshit."

Carla said nothing, one brow quirking even as a sardonic smile graced her lips. She scooped out another handful of the white powder, paying them no attention.

"How the hell sure are you that Ami isn't the killer?" Dean hissed, his palm coming down hard on the counter enough to shake the knife rack and what plates were set atop it. When she didn't respond right away, he stepped back and crossed his arms.

Wiping her white-stained hands with a towel, Carla murmured softly: "I just know." Her eyes turned up to regard the elder Winchester. "Ami's not like that."

Dean shifted slightly, arms still crossed over his chest. "Bet your life on it? Oh wait. The thing only feeds off pregnant women, so you don't count, do you?"

"Are you always this pig-headed?" Carla shot back, offended now, a flush creeping across her cheeks.

"Only when I need to be, sweetheart." Dean smiled again, cold and mean.

"Alright, stop it. Both of you." Two pairs of eyes turned to Sam. "Stop it. Okay?" He looked to Carla. "We heard the scream, okay? And Ami had blood in her mouth and on her clothe–"

"If she says that it's Gela, then it's Gela." The words sounded strangled. "It would make sense." She murmured softly, looking away even as Dean let out a sound of disbelief. "How does her pointing the finger at some other girl make sense?"

"_Don't._" Carla whirled to face him, one hand flexing and relaxing as if to relieve the distress that radiated waves from her. "Just don't." Her breath was a shudder, "Ami is a lot of things, but the one thing she _isn't_ is that creature." She turned back to the jar and put back the cap, her gaze turned down as not to look to either of the boys. "But if you want to continue believing that, that's your business. I can't do much when your mind's been set." She shut her eyes and whispered softly, "Get out of this house. And get out of our lives. You know where the door is."

When her eyes slid to meet Sam's there was no indication in his eyes to show that her words had cut him deeply. But he reached out again, an attempt to clasp her hand in his and he hoped, quietly that it showed that the last thing he wanted was to be estranged from her. She had been one of his first friends in college, had known him in that awkward stage of not quite knowing where to put himself.

After all that had happened, the last thing he needed was to be cut off from another person from his other life. "Carla, please, don't do this." He clenched his jaw, readying himself for whatever might come next. "We're just trying to help. But if you say that it isn't Ami, then until we prove that wrong we'll believe you."

"Excuse me?" Dean jumped in, not quite sure he was hearing what he was hearing. "Who's the 'we' in that statement? As far as I'm concerned, _I'm_ not counted in that."

"Would you just shut up for a minute?" Sam looked over to face his brother. "As far as I see it, we don't have any solid proof. Look, I want to catch this thing just as much as you but we could be wrong about Ami, and there are just so many other things to consider." Sam lifted his hand and started counting off, "First of all, she wasn't the creature when we found her. And second, the approach doesn't fit. Dad always said these things had patterns, and here it's attack by night, when everyone's sleeping. Why break that pattern now?"

But Dean didn't look the least bit swayed. "Is that the hunter or the college kid talking?" He asked in a low voice. "Be objective about this Sammy. People have died."

"Be objective." Sam all but croaked out, more than just mildly insulted at what Dean was implying. "Dean, I _am_ being objective. I'm not the one who suggested throwing her in the trunk on top of being gagged and tied."

"_What?!_" Carla hissed, causing both brothers turn their heads towards her. Wide eyes didn't lessen the disbelief in them, but as these narrowed to a glare, the quiver that edged into her voice was anything but afraid. "You wanted to throw Ami in the trunk?!"

"Well if you put it that way–"

The kitchen door swung open and Alfonso stepped in, and the rest of Dean's sentence fell away. Though Al's face was smooth and calm, there was no denying the dangerous fire that flickered in his eyes. For a moment, Sam swallowed, wondering if he'd heard that last bit about Ami being put in the trunk.

"Ami wants to talk to you." The voice was clipped, "All of you."

Apparently, he had not.

Carla nodded mutely, and moved to put the jar of _tawas_ away before she swept past Sam and Dean, exiting the kitchen to head towards the living room. With one last warning look, Sam followed Carla out, his footfalls audible in the oddly silenced household.

When they finally stepped under the arch that discreetly divided one room from the next, Carla was already settled down beside Ami, her face showing concern as she murmured words in both English and that other language. Whatever it was she was saying, it seemed Ami disagreed, as she simply shook her head and looked up at Sam.

"You have to go." Her voice was quiet, weary, and would have prompted anyone to believe that Ami couldn't possibly be the monster that they had decided to hunt. He wanted to latch onto that feeling, the one that contradicted all the clues, all the signs. First, because believing that she was responsible would only mean that his friendship with Carla was bound to suffer; and second, because something had been tugging at him since he caught her eyes reflected in the passenger seat's overhead mirror.

In his head, a memory resurfaced, his father yelling at him from across the brush _just shoot the damn thing_. He was twelve at the time, and had made friends with a kid from the foster home next door, who later turned out to be a changeling of sorts that had developed a taste for people's insides.

He'd never managed to shoot, but his father and Dean had, earning him just a needle-thin scar right above his navel.

He didn't want this to be like that time.

"Go?" He frowned, that wasn't what he had been hoping to hear.

Al spoke up next, one hand falling on Ami's shoulder, their earlier argument apparently discarded now, in light of more pressing matters. "We'll handle this. It's Gela." He looked down, his free hand propped lightly on his hip. "We have to do this our way."

"What, so you can tell your friend to hightail it and leave for another town before we have the chance to stop her?" Dean asked blithely, his smile anything but happy about the suggestion. "Fat chance."

Something – irritation, Sam was sure – flitted by in Ami's eyes, but she blinked and lowered her chin just a bit, and the look was gone. "You can't do anything if you don't know what, where and how to do it. We do." She shook her head. "No. We'll handle this for now." She inhaled and exhaled a moment, adding, "We'll call you if we need your help." as if that was all it took to end the argument.

Personally, Sam didn't like the _if_ in that statement one bit, but he was quick to note when people weren't going to budge, and judging from the way both Ami and Carla – not to mention Al – looked, nothing they could say or do at this point was going to be able to convince this family otherwise.

"Let us stick around at least." He tried, his eyes imploring Carla. "Please. You might need he–"

But he never finished. Carla had already turned away, looking up to Al to speak softly in her foreign tongue. It was like she just slammed the door in his face, cliché an image as that was. There was no chance now of convincing them to let him and his brother work with them. That chance had evaporated a long while ago, with him being called on his fibs and them managing to botch things up so badly.

Sam sighed then, and took a step back. "Okay. I get it." He turned towards the door, his jaw working in time with his fisted and then unfisted hands. "Dean, let's go."

"The hell."

"Let's. Go." Sam strode to the door, his pace too quick, but yet still too slow to get him out and away from everything. He stopped just as he opened the door, and he felt Dean sweep past him, frustration bumping their shoulders together.

"Carla?" Sam murmured lamely, looking back to her familiar face.

"Yes?" Came her cool response.

"I'm sorry about lying to you."

She gazed at him for a while, before simply nodding her head, leaving him unsure whether the gesture meant acceptance of his apology or simply acknowledgement. He nodded briefly to Al, though the older man didn't seem to notice, and Sam turned towards the door, heading straight out, not bothering to look over his shoulder once, not even glancing to Dean as he overtook his him.

"The fuck was that about?!" came the hiss at his shoulder, Dean's steps quick-paced as he caught up to Sam's long, purposeful strides. "We need that information Sammy! It's the only way we can – What the hell are you doing?"

Sam had walked all the way down to the edge of the curb, stopped, and then ducked into the shadows beside the house, scurrying towards the back. Confused at his younger brother's sudden desire to play stealth commando, but aware that he had no other choice but to follow if he wanted to know, Dean muttered a soft, "Son of a bitch!" under his breath, and jogged after his brother. Albeit _quietly_, head bowed, body crouched.

They slunk along the shadows, keeping out of the little pools of light that emerged from the open windows. Rounding the house, slipping through the gate that barred entry to the backyard, and from there, holding careful vigil by the kitchen door, Sam peered in, drawing back immediately when he saw that Alfonso was still in there, bent over the sink as if contemplating something in it. After a while, however, Al moved towards the door, and shut off the light plunging the room in near-darkness.

Sam glanced at Dean then, and one look and years of brotherly bonding over this sort of espionage communicated precisely what he had in mind. With a nod of assent, Dean opened the door quietly, and the two of them snuck into the kitchen, cautiously tip-toeing to the door that led into the dining room, which had not completely closed. While standing where they were didn't afford them a view of what was going on, it did allow them to hear what was being talked about.

Unfortunately, half the dialogue was spoken in that language neither of them understood. Though occasionally interspersed with English, the fact that the voices rose and fell didn't make understanding what was said any easier.

But they caught "Gela" with the words "at the theme park" in the same sentence, and that was all they needed to know.

* * *

Notes: 

_Pamati anay. - _[Trans. Filipino, Ilonggo dialect "Listen a minute."

_Indi pwede na matinir nalang ko di sa balay._ - [Trans. Filipino, Ilonggo dialect "I can't just stay here at home."


End file.
